Of Moths and Butterflies (24 page)

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“The audacity of some people!” Muriel said as they took their places in the rented carriage.

“He meant no harm, aunt. We had met before. He only felt it polite to acknowledge the acquaintance.”

“It was not Mr. Hamilton, I meant, Imogen. But I think you give that gentleman too much credit. He is not to be trusted, and you will do well to keep clear of him. In fact I should be very wary of any intercourse you may have with that family. To think how I was treated by that man!”

“Mr. Hamilton?” Imogen asked in surprise.

“Sir Edmund Barry, is who I mean! He summoned me there to retrieve you and then treated me as if I hardly had the right to enter through his front door. You will promise me you will not encourage him? Mr. Hamilton, that is.”

Imogen did not answer right away, but as her aunt’s gaze grew more penetrating, actually angry, she at last acquiesced. “Of course not,” she said, and knew she didn’t dare, whatever the temptation. “And what did Mrs. Barton have to say?” She was not sure she wanted to know, but if it meant diverting Muriel from the subject of Mr. Hamilton, she would gladly pursue the topic.

“The audacity!” she said again. “That scheming, conniving, impertinent woman!”

“Aunt?”

But the enlightenment she sought was not to be had. Silence reigned for some time. It was not until they had nearly reached the house that Muriel spoke again.

“We should go to my brother’s house soon,” she said. “I think it would be unwise to wait much longer.”

“I really have nothing there I want.”

“Will you write Mr. Watts and tell him I might be allowed?” Muriel asked with a stiff smile and a voice laced with unnatural sweetness.

Imogen felt that old panic set in. Her reply was offered cautiously. “I thought you could not go without me.”

“He says you might arrange it, if you wish.”

“Well I don’t,” she said, and turned to look out the window.

“You’re extraordinarily insensitive, Imogen. You know I want to go and yet you keep me from it. Not to mention how ungrateful it is of you, after all that has been done.”

Imogen was angry now. “Because he left me his estate as a sort of perverse gesture in order to make up for the deplorable manner in which he used me? Which gesture I would much rather have refused? Or perhaps it is to you I owe my gratitude, for making me accept that which I loathed to possess.”

“No one is making you keep it,” the aunt said, that light of anticipatory hope appearing in her quickly shifting eyes. “No one says you must have what you do not want.”

“I haven’t a choice now, have I? As you say, there is little chance of my marrying well, and so I must have something.” She would have said more, but could not, for the desperate bleakness of her situation weighed on her with such force she could barely draw breath.

Muriel grew rigid once more. “The house, at least, you needn’t neglect. You may not want it, nor anything that’s in it. That does not mean that others may not find some sentimental attachment to it. But no. You’ve selfishly abandoned it. Your uncle made great sacrifices. He worked his fingers to the bone to acquire such a house and to furnish it as he did. And do you care for it? Do you have any feeling at all for what he achieved…what he died trying to maintain?”

Muriel had hit closer to the mark with this than she could have realised.

“No, of course not. Ungrateful, wretched girl! Instead you let it sit to rot and decay!”

What more could she say? It was absolutely true. That house was the foundation, walls and roof, doors, locks and bolts of her past. If it stood and rotted from the inside out there could be no better end to it.

The enlightenment she sought was not to be had.

January 1882

N THE DAYS
that followed the Radcliffe party, Muriel’s ire was fed and encouraged. With the assistance of a concerned and well-meaning acquaintance, she at last learned of her niece’s clandestine meeting with Roger. The two young people had stolen off, alone and unchaperoned, where they might carry out their interview in private. But there is no such thing as privacy amidst the scramble and crawl of London’s lower upper-classes. What her niece had done, she had done for the whole of Society to gawp and carry on about. And this, on top of her interlude with Mr. Hamilton! It seemed there was no hope for Imogen. Whatever pains might be taken to protect her, she would insist on providing fodder for the gossips.

This, of course, was secondary to Muriel’s greater concern. For in order that she might benefit by her niece’s good fortune, a sufficiently desperate and consequently grateful suitor must be found. Such a union must necessarily be conducted under the most controlled of circumstances, with the candidate meeting specific criteria, and with all concerned parties prepared and willing to compromise. Those involved in Mr. Hamilton’s case were too cunning, too avaricious and, to be quite honest, too many. But neither would they be forgotten. Mrs. Barton had hinted that perhaps Sir Edmund Barry might be open to renegotiation, that perhaps, were she to consider it very seriously, Muriel might come to realise that there were advantages to the match beyond the purely monetary. There were connections to consider, an estate, and, perhaps—just perhaps—a title in time (and with a little luck). These things Mrs. Barton had hinted, and continued to hint at every possible opportunity.

But Muriel remained unconvinced. There were other opportunities, after all. If time was not on her side, then circumstances were. Imogen did not want the fortune, nor the house she would not allow her aunt to see. She wanted her freedom. But that was foolishness. What freedom was there for a woman in her position? None. It was a fact unworth refuting. Imogen must marry. There was no question of that. But if she would insist on being a pariah, then what hope was there? What Imogen needed was some time to consider the precarious nature of her situation. And to feel the weight of it. A little time was all it would take. A little time was all they had, after all. Perhaps, after a month or two of solitude, she might be a bit more amenable to her fate.

So it was that Imogen was given time to consider her position. But her removal from the disapproving eyes and tongues of Society was not the punishment her aunt had supposed. Were it not that she were being kept from Roger, it would have been nothing at all. Well, not quite nothing, for the tedium of her daily life was, by the third week of her confinement, truly beginning to wear on her.

One of the few luxuries afforded her, however, was the almost exclusive use of her aunt’s small but pleasant garden plot. The few idle hours which were hers to spend as she wished were very often spent here. It had become her habit to walk a little each evening, with the intention of sorting through her thoughts before retiring to bed. Those thoughts, however, were much harder to sort out and arrange of late than they had ever been before. She understood her aunt’s purposes. She was to wait until Society bored of the gossip—until some new, more prepossessing scandal took its place. Then it would be safe for her to try again, when she would be expected to be more humble, more obedient and more grateful for the opportunities her aunts had made such sacrifices to provide for her.

In the meantime those vices: pride, obstinacy, ingratitude—these Muriel had set her mind to conquer. Muriel considered her niece proud in thinking that she could stem Society’s judgments by ignoring them, or, worse, by defying the rules that had so wisely been set down for one and all to obey. She would learn to do better. She would learn, in fact, by reading, memorising and reciting passages from the handbook of correct behaviour:
The Young Woman’s Book: A Useful Manual for Everyday Life.
If Imogen would not listen to Muriel’s counsel, perhaps, given enough opportunity, she would heed that of the wise Mrs. Valentine.

In the matter of obstinacy, Imogen would be made, by her absence from his company, by waiting until either she had at last been convinced or he had formed an attachment, to give up any selfish thought of Roger Barrett. That they had enjoyed a quiet tête-a-tête, her aunt was clearly aware. That he had made Imogen an offer of marriage had so far escaped her knowledge.

Of course Imogen was considering. How could she not, when the alternative was to remain a prisoner in her aunt’s house? And yet…it was not the obvious choice it would have been had Archer Hamilton not reappeared. How she had tried to forget him! Why was it so hard to do something so very simple? And so very necessary.

Regarding the matter of her ingratitude, Muriel intended to wear her down. She absolutely insisted on seeing her brother’s house. The pressure mounted, at times became unbearable, and still Imogen found she could not comply. Not yet. For that she would need to make preparations, and such required Roger’s help. But how was she to get that if…

Imogen heard the gate creak open and close again. She turned to see Roger entering the garden. Placing a fingers to his lips, he looked first to her and then toward the house before making his way to a bench within a sheltered arbour.

She was surprised to see him. Shocked, even, considering she had just been thinking about him. But then she was always thinking about him, so perhaps it was no very great coincidence. She followed him to the arbour, where he had seated himself and was now waiting for her to join him.

“What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been playing elusive,” he answered, “and so I’ve come to find you out.”

“If my aunt should see you…”

“She won’t. She can’t.”

No. Roger was right. From this little alcove between a brick wall and the climbing ivy, nothing could be seen from the house.

“But if she were to observe you standing there, talking to someone…she’ll either come to fetch you or send you to the lunatic’s asylum. Which I dare say will be a picnic compared to your present accommodations.”

Imogen took her place beside him. His presence, the warmth he provided on a chill January night, was a strange and unanticipated comfort.

“Are you considering your alternatives?” he asked her.

“The asylum sounds rather nice, actually. What with the holidays just past, I’m sure there is much cheer and good will. And if I want to act as if my head isn’t on quite right, I doubt anyone would take much notice.”

“Ha!” he laughed stiffly. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

“Heavens no. The best would be that my aunt would suddenly change, wish me every unalloyed happiness and allow me to choose for myself the way in which I might be made so.”

“And what would you choose then?”

“Well, there would be no restrictions on my associations, and I would live quite independently.”

“You would take the money, then? Not flee from it as you did before.”

“If I wanted to be independent I would have to have something. I can see now how foolish I was, running away as I did. Were I to keep the money and all its trappings, I could not hope to be rid of my aunt’s influence, nor could I trust those who would seek to win my favour. Without it, there would be no hope at all, nothing to make up for the damage I have done to my character. It’s really an impossible situation, don’t you see?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“No. I know that, Roger.”

“And so?”

“Roger,” she said, turning to him and becoming very grave.

“My dear.”

“There is something I must do first, before I can make my decision. I’m afraid it won’t make much sense to you, but I need you to take me to my uncle’s house.”

He looked suddenly very suspicious. “Why?”

“My aunt insists I take her. I want to go alone first, to see the place for myself. Will you take me?”

“Yes, of course. But how do you propose to do it? And when?”

“I don’t know just when,” Imogen answered. “We’ll have to go at night, most likely.”

“You mean to sneak out?” he asked her as though her sanity were something to question, after all.

“How else?”

“Do you know the risk you’re taking? Do you know what the consequences might be if we are seen together?”

“Like now, do you mean?” she said and laughed.

Roger, however, remained serious.

“I don’t see another way, Roger.”

“If she has suspicions now, how much more will they be confirmed if she discovers you went to the house on your own? Why does she want to see it so badly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there any chance of finding something that would be of value to her, that she knows is there, or thinks might be?”

“I don’t care if there is or there isn’t.”

“But she might, especially if she thinks you are keeping it from her.”

Imogen didn’t answer.

“You aren’t hiding anything? No money? No valuables?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what is it you fear she’ll find?”

They both stopped and listened upon hearing a door open.

“Miss Imogen?” came the voice of one of her aunt’s servants.

“I must go,” she said. “You will take me, won’t you?”

Roger closed his eyes and sighed in submission. “Get me the key. We’ll figure something out from there.”

She kissed him on the cheek and returned indoors, much lighter of heart than she had been in some time.

*   *   *

Claire,

She is here. Miss Gina Shaw is in London. I have seen her. She is well and among family. She is not happy, though. And I cannot help but consider what you might yet do for her. I think she would like very much to see you.

Yours as always,

A. H.

Claire set the letter aside and blindly stared into the flames of the drawing room fire. Her grandmother sat adjacent to her, a book in her hand and reading the fine print with an eagle’s eye. For five and seventy she was a wonder of purposeful energy. Though as quick witted and perceptive as ever, she was no longer as strong as she used to be, and Claire could not now leave her as often or for as long as she was once used to doing. She chewed at one nail and read the letter again.

“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Montegue asked without looking up.

“Do you remember the young woman I told you about? The one I meant to bring to live with us?”

“Yes. The one you have been looking for these past many weeks?”

“Yes,” Claire answered, uncertain how her grandmother could know of such a thing. She’d only spoken once of her disappointment, and that upon returning home without the much anticipated companion. In the meantime, she had written all over London in search of anyone who might have heard of Gina Shaw. All her efforts had been fruitless. And now, here, all of a sudden she had turned up.

“It’s from Archer,” she said at length. “He has found her—in London it seems—and she is not so bad off as we had feared.”