Of Moths and Butterflies (26 page)

“There are good men, Miss Everard.”

“Exceptions to the rule?”

Quietly, reassuringly, he answered her. “I don’t believe it’s a rule.”

Her eyes met his. That look of hope remained. But doubt was there, too. “Are you trying to tell me you’re different, Mr. Hamilton? That you’ve held yourself to a higher standard?”

“I don’t know that I would say that. I have my weaknesses as well as anyone. But I have been spared from following temptation to its more sordid ends.

“Mr. Hamilton, do you take me for a fool? I have seen Betty Mason with my own eyes.”

“Miss Everard, this is ridiculous. You saw me speaking with her; that is all. And what you saw was her appealing to me because no one else cares two straws for that boy.”

“Your boy.”

“No!” He lowered his voice. “I have no past to hide, Miss Everard. Not from you. Nor anyone, but more especially from you.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away.

“You won’t believe me?” he said, taking her arm to stop her.

She looked up at him, unable to answer.

“Will you believe me?”

His gaze was pleading, and his hand, which rested on her arm, sent a thrill through her she had never before experienced.

“Will you?” he said again.

“Yes,” she whispered. And in that moment she did.

“You will think, then, before you accept Mr. Barrett, of what I have said?”

“To what purpose?”

“To the purpose that you have now not one offer to consider, but two.”

Her heart was suddenly beating far too quickly. He would convince her if she did not get away. She endeavoured to move past him, to make her escape, but he stopped her.

“Miss Everard?”

He had taken her arm again, and she looked up at him. His grip was gentle, and before he could tempt her to offer some promise they would both later regret, she freed herself. He made no effort, this time, to stop her.

She left the corridor and scanned the room for a quiet corner in which she might recompose herself, away from him, away from the prying eyes. The veranda perhaps, or the conservatory. Yes, the conservatory. And she made her way around the perimeter of the room in search of it.

“There you are, Imogen!”

Imogen stopped and turned to see her aunt.

“You remember Mrs. Barton, of course.”

As if her eyes had only just then found their ability to focus, she recognised her aunt’s companion. But then how could this be? She had heard enough over the passing days of her aunt’s feelings in regard to Mrs. Barton to convince her any alliance was impossible. “Hateful woman! Detestable woman!” Muriel had said over and over again. Now she stood arm in arm with her, as if they had ever and always been the best of friends.

“You look very well, my dear,” Mrs. Barton said to her, examining her closely, and then turning to her aunt. “She will do well, I think. With a little work, she will do very well.”

“It will not be easy for her, whatever she does.”

“If she were plain, if she were without the right recommendations,” Mrs. Barton added, pointing sharply at Imogen with her fan. “Without such virtues it might very well be impossible for her. But she has much to recommend her. She might make of herself anything, if she will only decide upon it.”

The conversation continued, and Imogen, tired to death of listening to that which she had not the presence of mind to comprehend, excused herself and walked, not quite blindly, away. She looked for Roger, or Lara, perhaps. Or better yet, an out of the way place where she might sort through the dizzying commotion of thoughts and feelings so newly stirred within her.

Yes, she ought to accept Roger’s offer. And she had meant, until tonight, to do it. She was no longer sure she could. If only she could know that Mr. Hamilton wanted her in spite of the rumours—and it seemed he did. Did he know of the money? There was no telling, really. But for all of the gossip, the horrific truth would shock and repel anyone. His admiration could not survive that. No. He must by now be aware of the money. That was the only explanation.

*   *   *

Archer, once more left to himself in the wake of Miss Everard’s flight, watched her as she left the corridor to rejoin the other guests. He dared not follow her this time, but kept her in view as long as possible. He had found strange hope in her words, though he could not understand her remaining reservations. She was not indifferent to him. He could see that, feel it. As he idly meditated on these things, and how to overcome the last of her objections, he was abruptly recalled to reality by the sight of his uncle—who was not supposed to be here!—and who had plainly seen him, as countless others must have done, leaving a lonesome corridor only moments after a young woman very red of face and curiously discomposed. Sir Edmund threw him a knowing look. But what it meant, Archer could not guess.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Archer suddenly realised he was no longer alone.

“My cousin seems out of sorts,” Roger Barrett said, tossing a look in the direction in which she had just gone. “Your little interview, I take it, is the cause.”

Archer’s jaw tensed. This really was too much. “We were discussing the common manners of the wayward gentleman, if you must know, Barrett.”

Barrett laughed, which irritated Archer all the more. “She is not for you, my friend.”

“Why should that be?” Archer asked. “She is not quite spoken for, I think.”

“She doesn’t fit your qualifications. Certainly she has much to recommend her, but there is some considerable baggage as well. No name worth mentioning, no family to speak of, a character in tatters. These are no small obstacles for a gentleman in your position.”

No, they were not. Archer dared not deny it.

“You have heard the rumours?”

He had not been listening. He never did. And he said so.

“Perhaps you should,” Roger answered and then walked away. Leaving Archer utterly perplexed.

He wandered the room, and the crowds, trying not to think of Barrett’s words, and pondering them all the more in consequence. The music went on, yet there was a great deal of conversation as well. Not much of it to any point. How Lord Hawkhurst’s granddaughter had fallen ill. How Lady Banesbury’s sister had miraculously recovered from the dropsy. But there were snippets too, phrases he caught but barely understood. He heard her name on the lips of a few, and such stories… They could not all be true. She had run away. Yes, well, he knew that already. She had eloped. Ridiculous! She had suffered abominably under her uncle’s care. Yes, very well. She had served him as a lure to attract and keep her uncle’s clients. A lure? What did that mean? He hesitated to make the conclusion. And there were further words in this vein, but he could listen to no more. Unable to make any sense of the tattle, or to discern the truth from the exaggerations and inventions, he turned from the crowd that bandied such tales about as though one woman’s reputation were no more than a ball to be played with. Appalled by the hypocrisy, he left the room, and soon the house as well, in search of any place where he might think what he was next to do, what he was to believe, and how much he ought to care.

N THE WAKE
of his failure, and impelled by the seeming hopelessness of his situation, Archer began his second epistle to Claire. Certainly she would help Miss Everard. He had no doubt of that, but it might not prove very useful to his own ambitions. Yet that was his ultimate aim. Else why write at all? If only he could be so unselfish. He had never had much practice in that. In every practical matter he had been handed his every desire, but when it came to the things he needed most, these were ever elusive. He had been spoilt materially but starved of affection. Such faults in his character would not serve him well. He could feel them eating at the very fibre of his moral being, weakening the foundation of what had so far kept him head and shoulders above his peers.

In the privacy of his Hamley Lane room, with paper and pen before him, the chaos of jumbled and addlepated thoughts distracted him from his occupation. The letter begun would not finish itself, and as he felt powerless to persist with the endeavour, he arose from his desk and went downstairs, hoping to be out of the house before anyone should notice. He’d been taking a lot of aimless walks of late, trying to clear his head that he might make sense of his conflicting emotions.

“Oh, Archer,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him. “A word?”

Archer entered the study and took the seat to which his uncle beckoned him.

“I think we’ve got it about settled,” he said as he looked over a letter lying before him.

Archer, uncomprehending, remained silent.

Sir Edmund glanced up. “This marriage arrangement, I mean.”

Blindly, Archer blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I have it here,” he said, raising the letter up. “The terms are at last agreed upon.”

“Is this really necessary?”

Sir Edmund smirked but offered no answer.

Archer’s heart was pounding, and the air, thick with tension, was unbreathable. “I want more time.”

“What good is more time going to do you? This is not a new proposition I’m making. You’ve had warning enough.”

“There has to be another way. I must be allowed to choose for myself.”

“It’s not your lot in life, my boy, to have the luxury of following your inclinations. Not when you’ve wasted so much time about it already.”

Shock and disappointment changed to anger now. “My lot then, is to make up for your failings?”

Sir Edmund sat in silence, rubbing at his chin, before attempting any reply. “It won’t do you any good to set yourself up against me in this. It’s an obligation you have always known was yours to fulfil. If it weren’t for me, you’d be nothing, and without her and the money she brings with her, all we’ve built up together and struggled to maintain will come crashing to the ground.”

Archer was on his feet. His collar was too tight, the room too warm. “I won’t submit to this!”

“My bet is you will,” Sir Edmund answered and leaned back hard in his chair.

Archer could stand no more. He turned to leave the room.

“Archer!” Sir Edmund said, stopping him once more.

Reluctantly he turned but did not answer.

“You’ve not asked me who the lucky girl is.”

“It really matters very little, sir.” But it should matter, and he knew it.

Calmly, Sir Edmund answered. “I should think it would be a matter of some considerable interest to you.”

Archer, his jaw tense, returned to the room.

Sir Edmund looked at him an excruciatingly long time.

“Well?” Archer asked at last.

“The young lady’s name is Miss Imogen Everard.”

Archer started and moved forward.

“She’s always been a bit of a curiosity to me—as I believe she has been to you.”

“Yes, but–” Archer began, and stopped again in utter confusion.

“It seems her uncle, upon his death, left her a sizeable fortune.”

Archer fell once more into his chair.

“Your marriage to her would set us quite free of debt, my obligation to Everard completely forgiven.”

“Miss Everard?” Archer said in bewildered amazement.

“You can’t have objections?”

Did he? Half a moment ago he might have listed them off by the dozens. But now? Now the world had suddenly shifted and every argument, every possible objection had evaporated. To think she might be his! But it was wrong. Nothing right is ever so easy. What is right is usually the hardest choice, the one which requires the most sacrifice. He ought to speak out, to protect her from being used in this way. But he was powerless.

“Does she know?”

“Not yet. But she will soon enough.”

“Will you let me speak to her? Will you let me plead my own case?” he said rising from his chair. “I think I can convince her. But I need more time.”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because you have done, unless I’m mistaken, and she wouldn’t have you!”

“I’ve hardly had the opportunity.”

“You’ve been chasing the girl since you first laid eyes on her. Don’t speak to me of opportunities.”

Archer, with one hand ruffling his hair, began pacing the room. “When?”

“Soon. A matter of weeks. A month maybe. The aunt is in a hurry to have it done. I suppose that Barrett fellow has something to do with her anxiety over the matter. It’s all a bit underhanded, I admit. But then who am I to judge? I may write to Mrs. Ellison and tell her to proceed with the arrangements?”

Dear heaven! He expected an answer now? It was impossible.

“Where are you going?” Sir Edmund asked as Archer headed once more for the door.

“Out.”

“Now?”

“I need to think.”

“What is there to think about? You want her. I’m not a fool. You will agree, of course you will. You know what’s expected of you.”

It was true; Archer had long understood what was expected of him. And to consider it might be she, for whom he’d grown to have the strongest of sentiments… The irony was too much to conceive of. He hesitated a moment more, staring at his uncle in silent disbelief.

“If you won’t do it, there are others who will, after all.”

“Others?” Of course there were others, but how would that benefit his uncle? Unless…

“Wyndham would be happy to oblige.”

Archer turned again and did not stop until he was once more in his room. In half a dozen lines, he committed the matter to paper, then sealed and addressed his letter to Claire. He returned downstairs and left the house to walk. Where? Anywhere. Blind as he was, it did not much matter.

*   *   *

Imogen turned the key in the latch as quietly as she could. The door creaked open on its hinges. Little had been altered since the day she had left. Even some of the crepe and bombazine remained, reminders that she had need to mourn, if not for her uncle’s death then at least for an innocence lost. And the freedom for which she had hungered so long. That which might be hers after all, should she accept Roger. Much was at stake with regard to this evening’s escapade. Roger must know the truth. She would tell him tonight. Only then, and only if he could look at her the same, if nothing in his regard for her should change, would she accept him.

Quietly, she stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

“You’ll wake no one, Imogen,” Roger said in full voice.

“Hush!”

“No one can hear. Turn the lights on.”

“No.”

Ignoring her, he began lighting the gas and a few candles, besides.

Imogen took the candle offered her and they began their silent examination of the house. It was not so bad, really. Even in the gloom of night, with so little to light the way, it was not as terrible as she had remembered it. The drawing rooms and parlours held not the ghosts she feared. It was not here her secrets were hidden. Her uncle’s rooms: his bedroom, dressing room, a sitting room and a study were all situated on the second floor. This is where they went last, and it took her a great deal of nerve to move beyond the landing where signs still remained of the struggle that had taken place.

“What happened here, Imogen?” Roger asked as he tried to right a fallen table. His efforts were in vain. The leg was broken and only haphazardly mended as if to disguise the fact. “Imogen?” he asked her once more, but she didn’t answer.

She forced herself onward, and when they reached her uncle’s bedroom, she waited at the door, sending Roger in alone to check all the corners and to look under the bed before moving on to examine the other rooms in like manner. It was only when they reached her uncle’s private study that she took the lead once more. Through the desk, through the drawers and shelves and bookcases, she rifled. The safe had been opened and emptied already. Its contents—various items of collateral—had been liquidated, or returned, as the lawyer deemed fit. Those valuables that had made up her uncle’s private collection were kept elsewhere, hidden, strewn about the house in various holes and hiding places. Or had been until a week ago, when she had instructed the lawyer to dispose of these as well. The house’s worldly treasures were not what she sought.

In a cabinet adjacent to the desk and across the room from the safe, she found them. Records, personal journals of the life’s works and dealings of her late uncle. There were ten of them; one for each year of her life here. Taking a deep, uneven breath, she gathered them up and stacked them on the floor before her. She sat, then, and opened the first. The uncertain light of the candle was interrupted and broken by a moth as it fluttered about the flame, singeing its already worn wings and making Imogen’s work all the harder. She began. But stopped again when her hands began to tremble and she found she could no longer see. And did not want to.

Roger, kneeling down beside her, took her hands in his.

“Tell me what all this is about, Imogen. You did not come here to retrieve some valued item you left behind.”

“No.”

“Something more personal, then?”

She nodded and looked down once more at her cache.

“These books, Imogen, are these what you came for?”

She handed him the first, of which he hesitantly opened, then read. The passage introduced her life with Mr. Everard. Her uncle was not disposed to keep her then. Though he liked her, thought her a charming girl and promising, she was not convenient to his mode of life and he regretted the responsibility that had been thrust upon him by his shirking sisters.

Roger finished this and she handed him the last. That which contained the entries of the final hours of his life. Here was his apology for his treatment of her and his hope that she would not continue to suffer from the consequences of what she had been made to endure. Then came the confession.

“Will you tell me? I won’t– I can’t read any more,” Roger said when he’d finished the first of these passages, “but will you tell me what exactly he expected of you? What he required?”

“I was to entertain, Roger, to attract and encourage. To keep this clients coming back if I could—however I could.”

Roger looked away.

“I confess,” she went on, her heart racing as she held back the tears long enough to tell her story, “in the beginning, I welcomed the attention I received from these men. I even began to hope, foolishly now, I admit, that I might find escape from my uncle’s own vulgar demands were I to persuade one of these men to take an interest in me. I thought I might be rescued, do you see? I didn’t understand then. In my innocence, I was too naïve to see that what they wanted from me was so far from what I could ever wish for myself. I didn’t understand, Roger. I didn’t know the dangers. How could I?”