Of Moths and Butterflies (16 page)

Mrs. Barton considered this, then turned to Sir Edmund with a question on her lips.

Sir Edmund interrupted her before she could begin. “It is not for Miss Shaw’s benefit we have gathered.”

“Dear, no. No it isn’t.” Mrs. Barton raised her glass. “May the next twelve months bring you all you wish for, my dear Mr. Hamilton.”

Archer answered with a grateful smile and raised his glass.

“And may you never forget your duty,” Sir Edmund added.

Hesitantly, certainly not enthusiastically, the toast was seconded.

Archer’s attention was once again on Gina. She was really amazing in a dress of jewel-toned blue, shadow and light dancing upon it in the reflection of the gas jets. Whatever might be said to the contrary, she seemed not at all out of her element here.

“It seems I’ve turned the whole house on its ear today,” Claire said recalling Archer’s attention.

He looked to her and smiled. “That’s no more than you usually do.”

But Claire’s look hinted vaguely of regret.

Archer, powerless to mitigate the damage already done and anxious to put to good use the little time that was left him, turned his attention, once more, from his cousin to Miss Shaw, but not before assuring himself that his uncle was occupied in deep conversation with Mrs. Barton.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble while you’ve been here. I hope you know it was not my desire to do so.”

“Please,” she answered. “It’s nothing. It is I who should apologise.”

“You?”

“I took the initiative to uncover the mural. And it was I who painted it over.”

“Perhaps it’s true you held the brush and applied the paint,” he returned. “But you did not do it of your own accord. I cannot blame you. And truly,” he went on, encouraged by her grateful smile, “you are right to say it was nothing. I had no idea of the painting’s existence half an hour before it ceased once more to be. It does not bear thinking on.”

Her expression was suddenly tense—pained. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The image was of your mother, Mr. Hamilton.”

For an instant he felt rebuked, and then, looking into those blue eyes of hers, he saw something deeper, as if she understood him like no other had ever done. It was not the first time she had had this effect on him, and he did not want it to be the last.

“I’m sorry,” she said, straightening in her chair and colouring. “I’ve done it again. I’ve spoken out of turn.”

Archer glanced at Claire who was busy in conversation with Charlie, and then assuring himself that his uncle’s attention was still diverted, lowered his own voice to answer.

“Your words may move me, Miss Shaw. They may make me think—and have done, but they will not offend me. They cannot.”

He looked once more down the table, where Sir Edmund and Mrs. Barton were continuing their whispered conversation, too engrossed to notice that any dialogue of consequence was taking place at the opposite end of the table. Archer might have been relieved, but at the moment, he didn’t care, so long as it caused Miss Shaw no further trouble. It could cause her but little more, truly. But that was the just the problem. She was leaving, and then what? How and under what conditions was he to consider her, then?

Claire looked up from her conversation with Charlie. “I nearly forgot,” she said. “You and Miss Shaw share a birthday, Archer. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Bewildered and staring, he answered a breathy, “Yes.” What more did they have in common? Would he ever know?

“Is there nothing we might give her?” Charlie asked, his face alight with anticipation.

“No,” Gina said, shaking her head. “No, this is Mr. Hamilton’s day.”

“Yours too,” Archer insisted.

“I have far more than I could have asked for. I have a friend now. More than one, I think,” she said looking from Claire to Charlie with an inclusive smile.

“Miss Shaw,” Archer said, determination thick in his voice. “I should hope you would consider yourself possessed of no less than three very dear friends.”

She turned to him again, her colour high. “Yes,” she said. “If you insist.”

“I do. And if you’ll promise to consider it so, I’ll hold it as the greatest of the gifts bestowed on me this night.”

“And after all the trouble, I’ve gone to!” Claire said, teasing. “If I’d known that’s all you wanted…”

“It’s no small thing,” Archer said.

“No. No it isn’t.” Claire’s manner was suddenly tense and warning. He did not understand the abrupt change. Or feared to.

“That is it, I suppose,” he said, with a nod toward one corner of the room where Claire’s gift to him had been deposited, packaged mysteriously in several large crates.

“Yes, but you must wait until the table has been cleared, for you will find it necessary, I think, to lay it out that we all might see. I think you will be pleased. You had better be, at all events.”

Aren’t you the fine gentleman this evening.

T LAST DINNER
was over. Sir Edmund and Mrs. Barton, whose conversation had grown increasingly confidential during the meal, retired to another part of the house to continue their tête-à-tête in privacy. In the meantime, the rest of the party withdrew to the drawing room while the table was cleared in preparation for the unveiling of Mr. Hamilton’s rather large and apparently complex gift.

While they waited, Charlie presented his own gift. It was a humble offering. He took from his pocket a small volume of poetry, and on finding the page, began to read, and then, gaining confidence, to recite from memory.
Ozymandias
. He recited it well. Imogen felt it a pity Sir Edmund was not present, for it would have attested to the care that man had taken in the boy’s education.

“Well done,” Imogen said when he had finished, and in glowing praise of his efforts.

“Have you another, Charlie?” Mr. Hamilton asked him now. “One poem for two birthdays seems hardly fair now, does it?” He arose to examine the book Charlie still held.

“No, please,” Imogen objected and stood.

“You dislike poetry, Miss Shaw?”

“No, of course I don’t dislike poetry, sir, but my place is as a companion to Miss Montegue, not as a spectacle, which is, I fear, exactly what I’m making of myself by being here at all.”

“Well,” Mr. Hamilton said to Charlie, seemingly defeated. “If Miss Shaw objects to poetry for herself, why not another for me?”

“Of course, Uncle. What would you prefer?”

Uncle? Is that what the boy called him?

“Keats, I think. Have you
Ode to Psyche
, Charlie?”

“I think so.” With Mr. Hamilton’s help, Charlie turned to it and began to read.

“O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conched ear:”

And when Mr. Hamilton helped him to read, and then, looking up, to recite along with him the words that followed, Imogen turned away.

“Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?”

It was all too much. Or was she making too much of nothing? She crossed to the farthest wall where a bookcase stood, and examined it, though rather blindly. She tried not to listen as they read. But it was that or think. She’d had quite enough of thinking for one day. She took a book from the shelf; she did not know what. Until she opened it. Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
. She had turned, by chance, to Boreas’ pursuit of the reluctant maid. Hurriedly she returned it to the shelf, but it dropped and fell with a great echoing thud, to the floor. It seemed an extravagance of sound, for it was not a large book.

It was Claire who broke the silence. “Have you another, Charlie? Anything will do. Something light, I think.”

“A sonnet?” he suggested.

“No. Definitely not a sonnet.” She took his book, and made a selection. “There. That should suit the occasion well enough.”

As Charlie once more began to read, Claire offered Mr. Hamilton a scolding look. He approached his cousin, and with her voice lowered, though not entirely inaudible, she spoke to him.

“Your pointed attention is out of place here, Archer. Don’t you see you make her uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know what to say, Claire, I….”

But Imogen could hear no more. Their voices had grown quite low. That, or Charlie’s voice had risen. Relieved, she listened to Charlie, who read now of ships and seas and voyages in far off lands. Safe subjects, all. And while he read, she took the opportunity of studying him in comparison to his uncle, or father, or whatever Mr. Hamilton might one day prove to be. Really, the resemblance was unremarkable. Save for the same elegance of manners and uniqueness of speech, they had little to identify them as kin. Perhaps she had been mistaken. How she hoped she had been mistaken. Not that it mattered. It didn’t.

Charlie, having finished, looked up with a bright face. As Mr. Hamilton and Claire were still consumed in their discussion, it was Imogen alone who applauded him. Which drew attention, once more, to herself.

Mr. Hamilton turned to her, while Claire, very red of face, knelt to speak to Charlie, to congratulate him, it seemed, and to offer the encouragement he so richly deserved. Of which, Imogen presumed, he was used to receiving very little.

While Claire spoke with Charlie, Mr. Hamilton approached Imogen. He stopped when she took a step away from him. “You’ll be leaving us soon,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I believe you will be very happy with Claire.”

“I see no reason why I should not be.”

“No,” he said quietly. Was it regretfully?

She dared to look up at him again, and found, as he gazed down upon her from the great height of his lithe frame, that the look in his eye had taken on a hint of desperation, as though he was aware of some impending loss, and that she alone might relieve him of it. But that was foolishness. On his part to imply it or on hers to imagine it, she could not say. Before she could make up her mind how to reply, the doors opened and Miles Wyndham entered.

“Well isn’t this a cosy gathering!” he said. And then he stopped as his gaze fell upon Imogen. He smiled broadly. At last he looked to Claire and greeted her.

Claire stood and turned as Charlie concealed himself behind her. Neither said a word to him in reply.

“Miss Shaw,” he said, approaching them. “Hamilton.” This last was offered rather coldly.

“Wyndham,” Mr. Hamilton answered.

“Good evening, Miss Shaw. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I was until a moment ago, Mr. Wyndham,” she answered honestly.

“And what has dampened your gaiety? Not my late arrival, surely. Perhaps Mr. Hamilton has somehow offended you?” He examined the pair of them standing very close together, for Mr. Hamilton had drawn nearer with Wyndham’s approach. “It would not be the first time I had cause to reprimand him for presuming upon—”

“Excuse me,” she said. “I think I made a mistake in coming.” She moved toward the door.

“Not so soon, Miss Shaw,” Wyndham said, stopping her. “The night is still young.”

“I’m sorry, I think I must. It’s been a long day.” She looked to Claire for permission to retire. Claire, now standing alone (Where had Charlie gone?) nodded her approval.

Imogen hesitated only a moment more. “I wish you a very happy birthdays, Mr. Hamilton.” With an apologetic smile, she then quit the room.

She returned to her own and, dressed as she was, she laid down on her bed. The tears came. Tears of shame and humiliation. Tears of regret. Then one or two of hope.

And then sleep.