Of Moths and Butterflies (3 page)

“No. The will must be read as it has been written.”

“Could I give it to them myself, then?”

“You can do whatever you wish once you turn twenty-one.”

Her voice was strained as she spoke. “Until then I am, by law, by my uncle’s act of depraved charity, condemned to the tyranny of those who would seek to gain by it themselves.”

“Your position is regrettable, Miss Everard. But I assure you that with a fortune to your name your chances are much better than they ever could be without it.”

“So there is nothing you can do to help me?”

“I have advised you to the utmost of my ability.”

Imogen blinked, unable to answer more. So that was that, it seemed. She had inherited her uncle’s fortune. She might have been grateful that she was no longer under his power. Instead, he had transferred that privilege to his sisters. That was their inheritance.

She vaguely heard his goodbye through the cacophony of her own thoughts. The clocks had been stopped. There was no noise at all save on the streets outside; the carriages as they drove past, the people walking to and fro in the daily business of their harried lives. At least they were free.

Imogen went again to the window and looked out, envying with unholy passion everyone she saw. As she rested her hand on the sill, her fingers brushed against the dead flies that lay there. She looked at them, found she could not take her eyes from them. That they had beaten themselves to death in their desperation to be free required no supposition at all.

She turned to the door. Could she do it? The answer came without much consideration. She must. There was no other choice. Were she to remain… Her gaze fell once more to the windowsill.

She crossed to the door and opened it an inch or two. Mr. Watts’ voice could be heard in the next room. She stole out into the hallway and up the three flights of stairs to her garret room, where she packed, as quickly as she could, only as much as she could easily carry. She would wait until morning if she must, but by first light she would be gone from this house, never to return. Not willingly, at any rate.

S IMOGEN LEFT the city behind her she drew in a great breath. But the fear and doubt, the sorrow and guilt, did not abate with the release of it. She had bought a ticket to Kent, simply because it was the first train leaving. From there she had chosen a small, out of the way town to which no one would think to go and where no one could possibly arrive by chance. No holiday spot, no thoroughfare to bigger and better places. But now she must think what she was to do once she got there.

What little she had brought with her—borrowed from her uncle’s cash box—would not keep her long. But this was no great obstacle, so long as she could find work. For a woman with no practical skills however, there were not many opportunities open to her. Yet she was not without experience. Her uncle had always had a difficult time retaining servants, but of late his temper had worsened, his habits had become blacker, his language bluer. Imogen, finding it necessary to lend a hand now and then in order to keep up the proper appearances, had contributed where and how she might. She had found the occupation a comfort. Such work allowed her to forget her worries and, better yet, had provided her with an excuse to avoid serving her uncle in far unworthier respects. The most difficult of chores had been denied her, it was true, but she had watched, and in theory, at least, she knew she was capable. Neither did she feel herself above it. Perhaps once. Not so now.

She considered, too, that there was possibly a certain safety to be found in such a position, for the merits of so humbling herself had already been tested. The men who had come to do business with her uncle had taken much interest in his refined and charming niece. In her labours assisting the staff, wearing a borrowed apron, with her hair untidied and her hands begrimed, she found herself beneath their notice. In this manner she had found safety. Could she find it again?

Through the train’s window, the great rolling countryside spread out before her. The fields and hedgerows, the houses placed at great distances one from another, and now and then, the quaint little village, all welcomed her with a promise of room to move and fresh air to breathe—a place to lose oneself entirely.

The appearance of a large country estate, a few miles outside of Ashford, provided Imogen with her first introduction to the small village that would be her new home. Soon another, and then another appeared. And when the most charming of these, a large abbey converted into an elegant country house, came into view, her decision was confirmed. It was here she would seek employment.

*   *   *

“Where has she gone, Roger?” Muriel asked upon entering her brother’s house that morning.

“Imogen, you mean?” Julia answered in astonishment. “Is she not here?”

“You must know where she is.”

Roger, puzzled, took an instinctive glance up the stairwell before turning his attention back to his aunt’s sister.

“Where are the servants?” Julia asked. “Where’s Mary?”

“Sobbing in the kitchen, I suppose. There is no one else.”

This was greeted by questioning looks from both Julia and Roger.

“Why is Mary crying, Muriel?” Julia asked when no answer seemed forthcoming.

“She says she doesn’t know where Imogen is. That she took her breakfast up to her and she wasn’t there. I’m afraid I rather interrogated her.”

“I’m not sure that was necessary,” Julia answered.

“And now I’ve been left to wait,
alone
, for nearly an hour, with no one here but…” She pointed toward the floor above and her brother’s room.

Roger turned to Julia for some answer, but she had nothing to suggest. Determined to learn what he could, and to waste no time about it, he climbed the stairs to Imogen’s room. Sure enough, the tell-tale signs of a sudden and hasty departure were present. Though most of her clothes remained, her necessaries were gone, as well as her heaviest mantel and a leather bag she used when she travelled—and that wasn’t often. This was a bitter pill to swallow, and he was forced to ask himself some very hard questions.

What would make her take such drastic steps? Could her decision to leave, and so abruptly, without any warning at all, possibly be to avoid his enduring petitions? Or was it simply in desperation to escape the prospect of living under her aunt’s tyranny with a fortune hanging over her head and everyone bearing down upon her to fight for their share of what she so desperately did not want? The first possibility left him humbled and disappointed. The second made him livid. That circumstances, that her own family, should oppress her to such an extent that she would take flight... He sat down on the bed to collect himself properly before going downstairs with the news that, to all appearances, his cousin, his dearest friend, the woman he loved, had fled home, family and fortune.

Roger returned to the parlour to find the aunts had gathered. All were waiting for him, it seemed, and some news of Imogen. Mr. Watts was there too, having recently arrived. Stoic and ashen-faced, Roger delivered his report.

“Gone! Could she be so ungrateful?” was Muriel’s reaction. “With her uncle lying in state and not even a word to tell us where she’s gone or why!”

“I think it’s fairly clear why,” Roger replied.

“Would you mind enlightening me?”

Roger turned to Mr. Watts. “You have come, I believe, to read the will?”

Mr. Watts cleared his throat. “Mmm. Yes.”

“Should not my niece be here to hear it?” Muriel inquired.

“Miss Everard has already been informed of the provisions made for her.”

All eyes were fixed on Mr. Watts as he took his place at the table. From his portfolio he withdrew several documents, which he examined before at last deigning to proceed. The will was read. The truth was revealed.

A single, sharp intake of breath was heard. And then the room fell deathly silent.

“You will wish to contest, of course,” Mr. Watts said after several minutes had passed, wherein Lara had looked up from the little dog on her lap, hardly seeming to have found the proceedings remarkable at all.

Julia’s fan fluttered at blinding speed.

Muriel sat rigid and fuming. “Most certainly I wish to contest. This is absurd! There must be some mistake.”

“Considering the precarious circumstances in which your niece has been left, and I dare say not by Mr. Everard’s carelessness alone,” he added rather pointedly, “I think it quite understandable that he would wish to provide her with some means of security.”

“She has taken it, then. She has taken the money and fled.”

“She has not taken it, Mrs. Ellison. In fact, I believe she has gone with the hope of escaping it, and the temptation it will undoubtedly provide to those who would further oppress her.”

“She has fled to escape it?” Muriel repeated to herself, or to a spot on the floor, it was uncertain.

“I believe so, yes.”

She lifted her gaze to meet the lawyer’s, a distinct air of hope prevailing in both look and tone. “She has forfeited it?”

“That’s not possible. She is not yet of age. She has, I believe, something over a year before she will have the power to make any decision whatever regarding it.”

“Unless she were to marry,” Julia suggested, offering Roger a knowing look.

He took her meaning, but what was the use? She was gone. That’s all he could think of.

“We have to find her,” Julia said.

“Yes, of course,” Muriel answered, her eyes flashing with renewed purpose. “She must be found. Of course she must be found! There can be no question of that.”

The air of determination in her voice ought to have given Roger hope. Instead it made his blood run cold.

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” Julia gently asked of her nephew.

Slowly, he turned his gaze upon his aunt. “I wish to God I did.”

From his portfolio he withdrew several documents.

MOGEN'S IMPRESSION OF Wrencross Abbey improved upon closer inspection of it. Handsomely adorned with Gothic windows and doorways, and with spires and chimneys that vaulted to the skies, it was a magnificent structure. And its apparent age, with its weatherworn stonework and profusions of ivy, made it appear a romantic sort of place, if not exactly cheerful.

She arrived at the front door, and it was not until it was opened to her that she realised the first of her mistakes. The gentleman, after greeting her with that cursory respect adopted by all great men of service—to butlers and footmen, particularly—seemed to reconsider his manner once she had stated her purpose. Why she had not thought of it, she could not imagine—her mind had been too occupied with her mission, she supposed, and the anxiety inherent in the uncertainty of her success—but she ought to have applied at the kitchen door, not here at the front of the house as though she were some guest to be revered. She felt the heat rise in her face. Steadying herself, she inquired as to the possibility of speaking with the housekeeper. The butler bowed again, this time with an air of suspicious deference, but nevertheless requested that she enter and wait. Left to herself, she took the opportunity of observing her surroundings, the high wainscoted walls, the coffered ceiling, the faded paint—and the dust. There was so much of it. Surely her arrival was timely.

“What can I do for you, miss?” the housekeeper inquired on finding her thus occupied.

“I’m looking for work please, ma’am.”

The housekeeper’s smile faded. Her brow lowered and she looked at Imogen very closely, her eyes scanning her face, her clothes, the bag she had carried with her.

“No ladies live here to attend upon,” she said.

“I’ll take anything, ma’am.”

“Your name?”

“Gina Shaw,” she said. She had made the decision on the train. A new name for a new life. Though it wasn’t exactly new. It was only an abbreviation of her own, after all. She had objected to its use once before, once when one of her uncle’s “gentlemen” had insisted on calling her by it. It seemed befitting now. Common and low. The surname she had chosen at random. Together she hoped the two would prove too undistinguishing to raise question.

“Gina, is it?”

At that moment a pair of doors at the end of the hall opened. Imogen looked, but saw no one emerge from nor enter the room to which they belonged. A library, by all appearances.

“I’m not sure I have anything to offer you,” the housekeeper said, calling back Imogen’s attention.

“But surely you could use the help?”

The housekeeper pulled herself up to her full height. Which was not much. “Are you implying that my staff have been slack in their duties?”

“No, ma’am. Of course not. Only that a house this large… Surely there must be something you can find for me to do in it?”

This speech seemed to do little to placate the woman, and yet she was considering. Imogen could see it.

“Have you any references?”

She felt her hopes sink. “No, ma’am.”

“No experience then?”

And rise again. “Yes, ma’am. Some experience.”

“The name of your former employer?”

She hesitated. She must provide some reference, even if it were of a dead man. Perhaps that was the best kind, after all. “Mr. Drake Everard, ma’am, late, of London.”

The sound of wood sliding across wood, like a chair drawn across a floor, could be heard from the region of the open door. She glanced again, but saw nothing.

“You are used to early hours and late nights?” the housekeeper asked with apparent doubt. “To hard work on hands and knees, to carrying and cleaning and blacking and washing?”

“As I said, ma’am, I’ll take anything.”

“That was not the question I put to you.”

“I’ve done a little of everything, ma’am, I assure you. And what I do not know how to do, I can learn and learn quickly.”

“I don’t have time to train a new maid. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you.”

With that, Imogen was dismissed. She turned to go, but took a passing glance once more in the direction of the open doors and found, to her surprise, a white haired gentleman standing within the frame of it, watching her in her embarrassment and prepared, or so it seemed, to stare her quite out of countenance.

The outer door was opened for her, and taking her cue, she left the house.

*   *   *

“You did not want the help, Mrs. Hartup?” Sir Edmund Barry inquired from the doorway of his library.

The housekeeper started and turned to him. “It’s been some time, sir, since you’ve given me leave to hire anyone new.”

“That does not answer the question. Can you use the help? I believe you can.”

“She’s not made for the kind of work I would want her for.”

“Does she not have two hands? Is she crippled? Maimed? An idiot?”

“Of course not, sir.”

Sir Edmund turned back into his library and Mrs. Hartup understood that she was to follow.

The library was an addition to the old structure of the house, and had been built to match it as much as possible. Indeed it was sometimes difficult to tell where the old Abbey ended and the new began. The library itself jutted out at an odd angle from the main structure of the building and had once been intended to serve as a conservatory. In recent years, and wishing to have a private egress onto the grounds and a view more pleasing, Sir Edmund had relocated the library here from the upper floor, blocking up the windows with bookcases made especially to fit. A doorway on each of the exterior walls led out onto a charming expanse of lawn flanked on all sides by weedy and rank gardens. On the wall opposite from the doors through which Mrs. Hartup had just entered, was a fireplace. And near it, though not exactly before it, stood a monument of a desk, designed to serve as a fortification between its occupant and those who threatened to disturb his peace.

Mrs. Hartup found Sir Edmund here, examining, if vaguely, something on the desk before him. He posed his question without looking at her. “She gave you a reference, I believe.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, unable to account for his interest in the girl. “Only one, though.”

“And it was?”

“She gave the name of Drake Everard.”

“So she did. Her answer was curious, didn’t you think? ‘Late of London,’ were her words. ” A short and contemplative pause followed this as he turned to look out the window. “Did she mean, I wonder, that her former employer is no longer in London, or that he
is
no longer?”

Uncertain whether this question was directed at herself or merely offered rhetorically, she refrained from answering.

Sir Edmund turned to her. “Do you think it possible you can find me a London paper, Mrs. Hartup?”

“I suppose I can, sir. I might send Charlie to get one for you.”

“He’s not a page boy, Mrs. Hartup. But yes, that will do. Only…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want as many as can be found. From the last week or two. Be sure the death notices are in them, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” she said and turned to attend upon her errand.

“Where have you sent her?” he asked stopping her.

“The girl?”

“Yes, the girl!”

“She has gone on her way. I don’t know. I believe I saw her walking in the direction of Mr. Wyndham’s house.”

Sir Edmund’s eyes flashed to meet hers. The question, unspoken, was nonetheless clear.

“I did not send her there, Sir. She went of her own accord.”

An expletive erupted from his lips before he found the coherency to offer his next command. “Send Charlie after her. Bring her back.”

“Sir. I don’t have time to train a woman of questionable ability or to—”

“Hire her, I say! I’m not giving you permission. I’m giving you an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, taking little care to veil the irritation she felt.

*   *   *

Imogen was disappointed. She didn’t dare deny it. With her head held high, and fear and misgiving mounting in her heart, she set her footsteps toward another house not far off and whose tower was just discernible through the treetops. She had accomplished half the distance when she was stopped.

“Miss Shaw!” came the voice.

She turned to find a young boy, perhaps eight, running toward her.

“Are you Miss Shaw?” he asked, breathing hard.

“I am,” she answered.

“I’ve come to fetch you. You’re to return to the Abbey.”

That feeling of hope, so unfamiliar to her, soared again upon hearing this.

“May I?” he asked, and without waiting for the answer, he took her bag from her.

They walked in silence for some time as Imogen surveyed the boy. He was a beautiful child with hair nearly as dark as her own and eyes like water, clear and brilliant. He spoke well too, and so she hesitated to consider him one of the servants. His clothes were finely cut, if a bit worn, and his manner ingratiating. By the way he turned to her several times during their journey, she could tell he was examining her with equal interest. Yet nothing was spoken between them until she was once more standing within the Abbey’s entrance hall.

“I’ll go find Mrs. Hartup for you,” he said and was gone.

Mrs. Hartup, when she returned, stared at Gina for a long minute before at last releasing a frustrated breath. She had hired her but she did not seem pleased with her decision.

“Follow me, if you will,” she said.

Imogen obeyed. The house was built around a courtyard, the entrance hall forming the main transept. To her right, against the east wall, stood the staircase, and beyond this lay several state rooms and a ballroom. In the lower west wing of the house was a dining room, another drawing room, and the library.

They mounted the staircase, where Imogen took in more carefully the once grand splendour of the place. The wainscoted panels were in need of dusting and polishing. The portrait bestrewn walls, once blue, had faded now to a sombre and melancholy grey.

At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hartup turned to her.

“There,” she said with an impatient wave of one hand, “is the west wing. Sir Edmund’s rooms are here,” she said, indicating the door nearest them. She jerked her head then in the opposite direction. “The east wing,” she said, “is no longer in use. We keep up as well as we can with what is.”

Mrs. Hartup walked on.

Another flight of stairs brought them to the uppermost floor, where the servants’ quarters and several storage rooms were situated. At the end of the hall, Imogen found her room. Though small, it would suit her well enough.

Mrs. Hartup cast her eyes about the room before turning them once more upon Imogen. “Your things will be sent up shortly,” she said. “You may have the remainder of the day to settle in. We’ll see how you get on tomorrow, though I’ve no doubt you’ll be more trouble than you’re worth.”

“You doubt my ability,” Imogen dared to say in an attempt to reassure the woman, and perhaps herself as well. “You cannot doubt my determination.”

Mrs. Hartup turned and gave her another evaluating stare. “We shall see,” she said again, and left, closing the door behind her.