Of Moths and Butterflies (27 page)

“You couldn’t, Imogen,” Roger reassured her. “Of course you couldn’t, but–” he stopped, and it was a minute or two before he went on. “Just how far did he require you to take such matters?”

“As far as necessity demanded, I suppose. Though I may have learned late, I did at last realise what it was my uncle was offering these men on my behalf. He was often angry when I refused to comply with his wishes, but he never forced me. The lengths to which I was willing to go to prevent it made it impossible that he should.”

“Then why do you insist that you are unworthy of the respect, even the regard of others? Such forbearance proves your virtue, Imogen, not the reverse.”

“Yes, in an ideal world you would be right, but this is not that world, and what has been proposed that I might do or might be done to me is as good as accomplished in Society’s eyes. But you read these pages?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not completely innocent.”

“But you said—”

“Once, Roger. Once. It was not my uncle’s planning, but he had provided the opportunity. And the opportunity being so provided, it was taken.” Shameful tears prevented her from saying more, and she buried her face in her hands.

Roger pulled her toward him and held her until she calmed.

“What happened in the upstairs hall?” he asked her when they were both able to speak again.

“That night, the night he died, we fought.”

“He was angry with you? You had a disagreement?”

“Roger, we fought. Once again, I had refused to do his bidding. He was so angry. Of course he had been drinking. And he called me such terrible names.”

“None of which you deserved!”

“Names I’ve called myself.”

“Imogen, please.”

“It was not the first time. It had happened before, but this was by far the worst. I was determined it would be the last. He was equally determined, I suppose. We struggled. Somehow my strength, my senses were surer. I pushed him away from me, but he was very near the stairs. He fell. Not down them, but near them. He’d been struck somehow. Perhaps by the banister, or the table when it toppled over with him, I don’t know. He struggled to get up. He begged for my help, but I wouldn’t go near him. It was cruel of me. Wicked.”

“No,” Roger assured her.

“It was in his writhing that he managed to be near enough the stairs. I might have prevented it but…”

“Imogen...”

“I killed him,” she said, with tears streaming.

“No, you did not. He killed himself.” Roger held her close. “Do you hear me?” he said. “He killed himself.”

*   *   *

Archer, in his wanderings, had no predetermined plan in mind, and he found he’d gone some distance before the faint idea became a firm realization that his steps were carrying him in the direction of Mrs. Ellison’s neighbourhood. It was too late to expect to see Miss Everard. He could not speak to her. And what would be the use if he could? Archer walked past the house. All the lights were out, as they should be at this hour. There was no point remaining here. If he stayed much longer, he would begin to look suspicious.

He was not quite ready to go back to Hamley Lane, however, and so he turned instead down a side street, and then another, until he found himself in a more familiar neighbourhood. There were few people out so late, certainly no one with whom he would wish to speak. All was still and quiet. And then he heard voices. He could see no one, but they seemed to be ahead of him somewhere. Then, from out of the shadows and into the light cast by the streetlamps, appeared a couple. They were talking very intently, very earnestly, the two. They walked arm in arm, not the way friends do, but the way those of the most intimate acquaintance will when one means to protect the other from pain, or cold—or the night. As they drew just opposite, he entered the shadows, and they once again came within the light of the street lamp. It was Barrett—and Miss Everard. Good heaven! What could they be doing out together at such an hour?

Before he could be seen, he turned and made his way down a darkened side street. He refused to consider what this must mean, but there was no erasing the image from his mind. He could not escape it no matter how he tried.

Was it too late, then? Had she made up her mind already? If she should marry Roger Barrett... And with the thought, he felt something within him harden. He was no longer powerless to do other than submit to circumstances. With a word, perhaps three, he could cast it all aside. He might rescue her—secure her. Perhaps, after all, there was no other way.

*   *   *

Sir Edmund looked up as the library door opened. “You have made a decision?”

Archer, from his place within the doorway, opened his mouth to speak. He had not prepared the words, and so they rather surprised him as they tumbled out. “Make it happen,” he heard himself say.

Sir Edmund leaned back and smiled. “Very well, then.”

RCHER AROSE THE
following morning feeling himself the greatest of villains. His musings through the night had presented for his consideration the dire consequences of his rash words. He dressed and went in search of Sir Edmund. He found him too, sitting in the drawing room as Mrs. Barton chatted at him over the morning’s paper.

As Archer entered, she arose to embrace him. “Congratulations, my dear,” she said, her smile beaming more with self-satisfaction than with any sincerely selfless sentiment.

“I wonder, Mrs. Barton, if I might have a word with my uncle?”

She took a quick glance at Sir Edmund, who raised a questioning eyebrow at his nephew. “Yes, of course,” she said, and left them.

“Well?” Sir Edmund prompted once the door was closed.

Archer hesitated only a moment, and then… “I want more time.”

“We haven’t got it.” And as though that were all there was to the discussion, he picked up his paper and resumed his reading.

“These arrangements,” Archer tried again, struggling to be patient. “I fear Miss Everard will not welcome them.”

“No, I’ve no doubt she won’t. But what choice has she?”

“That’s just it, sir. I do believe I can convince her. But she has the right to make the decision for herself. Think how unpleasant it would be to bring her back to the Abbey against her will. She’s not indifferent to the house, nor to me, I believe.”

“Only to me, then, is it? That’s an obstacle I cannot overcome.”

“You will not treat her ill? Can I promise her that much?”

“We are bargaining now, are we?” Sir Edmund asked, glancing up over his paper.

Archer took a seat next to his uncle. “If that’s my only choice, yes.”

“Choices!”

“I have a choice to do it willingly or not at all, whatever you may say. I might try it on my own, after all.”

“With what! You’ve no money of your own that isn’t tied up in the estate—or hasn’t been wasted at the gambling tables.”

Archer hesitated a moment. “But she does, doesn’t she. And you should know I’ve written to Claire. She will help me if I ask her.”

Sir Edmund scoffed but wriggled in his chair.

“I want one more opportunity to speak to her. Think how much better it will be for everyone if the arrangements are made amicably, all parties accepting.”

Sir Edmund took a deep breath and released it as he laid the paper down on his lap. “One more chance?”

“Yes.”

“If I grant you this request, you will submit willingly?”

“You have my word.”

“To everything. All the arrangements. No matter what?”

Archer considered this. Was there something more to his uncle’s plans than he had yet realised?

“Whether or not she will accept you?” Sir Edmund pressed.

It was asking a lot, but he saw no other alternative. “Yes,” he said, at last.

“Tomorrow afternoon. That’s the best I can do. They are expected to join us for tea. You will have your opportunity then. But whether or not you succeed, the arrangement will be announced tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Archer said, hope and relief washing over him.

“And you will submit, remember.”

“Yes. Whatever you ask.”

*   *   *

Imogen arose that morning to find Mr. Watts having a cup of tea with her aunt.

“We go to the house today,” Muriel reminded her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you sure you are up to it?” the lawyer asked, a twitch of his mouth betraying his sympathy. She regretted she had ever thought him callous and hard.

“I believe so,” she answered him. At least she was as ready as she would ever be.

Upon arriving at the house, Mr. Watts attended the aunt through the house, while Imogen followed, watching for herself as the woman tried in vain to open the locked wardrobe and the attic doors. Where were the keys? No one knew.

As for Imogen’s fears, these had been laid to rest upon seeing the house in the light of day, and knowing that any last evidences of her history were not to be found here. Nothing remained to betray her secrets. Roger had disposed of these in a mendicant’s bonfire on their journey home.

They left the house soon enough, empty handed and silent, but Muriel suddenly found her tongue upon arriving home.

“What
do
you intend to do with that house, Imogen?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, aunt.”

“You don’t mean to live in it?”

“I might.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“Not at present, no,” Imogen answered. “But you must allow that there will come a day when you’ll have no control over me, and I can live where and how I like.”

“I suppose you hope to make yourself quite independent of us?”

“Wouldn’t you, were you in my position?” Imogen answered. “I think you know very well I’m not happy.”

“That’s very ungrateful of you! Think of all I have done for you.”

“Oh, have no doubt, ma’am. I think about it every day,” she said, and gained a step or two on the staircase before her aunt stopped her.

“You’ve had an offer of marriage.”

“Yes,” she said, facing her aunt once more.

“I want you to consider it carefully.”

“I know very well that my opportunities in that vein are few. I do not take Roger’s offer lightly.”

“It isn’t Roger I mean, child. There is another.”

Imogen blinked, her voice catching as she answered, “I’m sorry?”

“I want you to consider him carefully before you reject him out of hand. Roger’s offer may seem attractive to you at first, but you know him well enough to doubt his constancy.”

Imogen didn’t answer this, but swallowed hard. She felt the walls closing in around her.

“You will listen to him?”

“You do not demand that I accept him?”

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“When?” she asked.

“Soon, I think. I cannot be sure. In the meantime, we’ve been invited to have tea with Mrs. Barton. You should consider it an honour to be thought of. We owe them something after all.”

“Them? Sir Edmund and his nephew will be there?”

“I suppose they will,” Muriel replied offhandedly.

But Imogen was no longer listening. Her gaze drifted past her aunt’s face toward the door, and the locks and bolts that kept it closed fast. She was trapped. But she would see Mr. Hamilton again. Perhaps for the last time. It was something, at any rate, that she might look forward to.