Of Moths and Butterflies (30 page)

February 1882

MOGEN STOOD BEFORE
the mirror, uncertain what to make of her reflection. She was really beautiful, with her dark hair falling about her shoulders in large, loose curls. She very nearly did not recognise herself, but the reflection that stared back at her was hers, there was no mistaking it, bruise and all. She raised her hand to cover the mark that was the only flaw in her appearance. Julia, too, had made the observation and crossed to the dressing table to retrieve the powder. As deftly as she could, she attempted to cover it. The bruise was not large, nor was it particularly dark, but the week or so that had passed since Imogen had received it had provided adequate time for it to change into a myriad of unnatural hues.

“I’ll keep my veil down,” Imogen said. “No one will see it. And so long as he doesn’t raise it…”

Julia gave her a dubious look.

“He needn’t,” Imogen insisted. “I’m sure he doesn’t expect to.”

“If you think he’ll have no desire to kiss his bride, then I’m afraid you don’t know men very well.”

All the colour, high but a moment ago, drained from Imogen’s face. Yes, she understood men well enough. Experience had taught her, after all. Yet Archer Hamilton’s smooth speeches and tender looks had fooled her as she had never been fooled before. She had believed him different from the others. How much would she be made to regret her folly? Once the ceremony was over, she would be his, and he might do with her as he liked.

There was a knock at the door, and Julia went to answer it, while Imogen continued to contemplate her reflection—and her future.

“I don’t suppose you’d allow a visitor,” she said returning with a bright smile.

“He’s here?”

“Yes, Roger’s here. He’d like to see you.”

“Roger?” Why had she supposed it would be anyone else? “What will I say to him? How will I explain?”

“He knows, Imogen. He understands. Let me tell him you’ll see him? It might be the last opportunity you’ll have to speak for some time.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but of course it must be true. “Yes. Let him in.”

Roger entered a moment later, and then, seeing her, halted before closing the door behind him. “Look at you!”

“Roger, I am sorry.”

He shook his head as if to say he understood, that it didn’t matter, but there was too much pain in his eyes for it to be convincing.

“What could I do?” she asked him.

“Did you truly have a choice?”

“Yes. That is–” She found herself unable to explain.

“Not much of one, Imogen, I’ll wager. Still. If only—”

“Don’t say it, Roger.”

“No. Some things are better left unsaid. I hope you’ll be happy.”

“Yes. So do I”.

“We won’t be strangers, I hope.”

“Of course not.”

“It won’t be easy to be what we once were.”

“Why should that be?” she asked, but regretted it the moment the question was out. What had they been, she and Roger? She had always been more to him than she had allowed him to be to her. And Archer knew it all. What husband on earth would allow for so much? Her gaze fell to the ground and tears threatened to give way once more.

Roger approached her and took her by the hand. “If things should prove to be unpleasant, Imogen, you will send for me?”

“Yes,” she answered, though she hardly understood what she was saying, or how she managed to say it.

“I can’t imagine how it will be for you.”

“Can’t you? You knew him well. Have you no idea?”

“That uncle of his—”

“Not the uncle, Roger. I don’t care about him. What of Archer?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Imogen,” he said. “I wish I could tell you he’s a cad and a scoundrel and you’d do better to come away with me. The fact of the matter is, I think—that is, I once thought—very highly of him. I don’t know how all this came about. Your aunt….and the uncle, I expect. And except for the fact that he allowed it to happen… I don’t know if I can forgive him for that. You won’t forget to send for me, if you need anything? No matter how large or small?”

“Yes, Roger.”

He kissed her then, on the uninjured cheek. “What do you mean to do about that?” he asked, pointing to the other.

“I’ll cover it. The veil you know.”

Roger gave her an odd look.

“It’ll be all right.”

“Won’t it get in the way?”

“Under such circumstances, such displays of–” she couldn’t bring herself to say affection. “They’re unnecessary.”

“Great day, Imogen! Can’t you see that the man is in love with you?”

Imogen straightened. How could Roger know? “Did he tell you that?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing! You live in this crazy, mixed up world where no one means what they say. All the conventions and traditions that are so set in stone for others mean nothing to you, or mean something completely different than what they should. You flew from your fortune as if it were the death of you. Most people die chasing one. You stooped, and quite happily I might add, to the position of a servant, when most aspire to be served. And whatever efforts have been made to convince you otherwise, you will insist you’re unworthy of the affection of those who would truly and deeply love you. Good heaven, Imogen! Won’t you let him try?”

“You want me to marry him?”

“I want you to be happy. I think he can possibly make you so. But will you give him the opportunity, or would you rather he despise you as you despise yourself?”

“You are cruel!”

Roger took both hands in his now. “You know I love you. I’ll always love you. Your problems are likely not over. I do see that. But you have a choice to make, and it’s possibly the hardest you’ll ever face. Choose to be happy, will you? Let yourself be happy. Allow yourself to love and be loved.”

“But if he’s marrying me for the money, Roger...”

“It can’t be that alone. Not if I know him at all. If I’m wrong, at least I know you have the power to make him reconsider.”

She had no reply to offer for this, and they stood staring at each other for a moment or two before the silence was broken.

“I have to go,” he said. “So do you, I think.”

“Yes.”

Roger turned to leave.

“I will see you later?” she said to him.

“No.”

“But you’ll be there. Mr. Watts is going to give me away. I would much rather have you to do it. Will you?”

“You ask too much, Imogen,” he said, and the look he gave her prevented her from protesting further.

*   *   *

Archer stood before the mirror in his room on Hamley Lane, fumbling with his tie and trying not to think what the next twelve hours would bring him. He was having less success in the endeavour than had Imogen.

Sir Edmund knocked and entered the room. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing with that tie?”

“I wish I knew. I can’t seem to get my fingers to cooperate.”

Sir Edmund approached him and straightened the mess out himself. “Nervous, are you?”

“Very.”

“It’s all right you know,” he said, standing aside and allowing Archer to examine the improvement. “You’re all nerves now, and will be for a little while. It’ll all change in the blink of an eye. Too soon you’ll find you’ve been married twenty years, and there’ll be a brood of children at your heels to prove it.”

Sir Edmund was quiet long enough for Archer to imagine what ceremonies of familiarity were required in order for such a thing to come about. If he meant to keep his mind off of those particulars, his uncle was not helping.

“Has Claire come?” Archer asked. He had not been sure she would. She had been so angry when she left him last. But if she would not come for him, mightn’t she come for Imogen?

“She wasn’t invited.”

“She wasn’t invited?” Archer echoed, turning to face his uncle again. “Why ever not?”

“It didn’t seem necessary to go to all the trouble.”

“Considering the way all this has come about, I think we owe it to each other, to Imogen at least, to make every effort.”

“Bah!” was Sir Edmund’s only answer, but there was a hint of remorse on his face. Such expressions were traditionally followed up with more than usual acerbity, but he was not himself today. He played with something in his hand, looking at it contemplatively. At last he presented it for Archer’s inspection.

“Here,” he said, handing it over.

Archer took it and examined the small, gold object. “What’s this?”

“It’s a ring. It’s the customary thing you know.”

“Yes, I know what it is. Whose though? Not yours.”

“Yours.”

Archer laid it on the table, uncertain what to make of his uncle’s odd manner.

“It was your mother’s.”

“And she was never married,” he said as he fiddled a little more with his tie, and then with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“She was meant to be. It was their intention.”

Archer, still staring into the mirror, did not answer.

“Have you an alternative?” Sir Edmund asked.

“I have.”

“Can I see it?”

Archer reluctantly withdrew it from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to his uncle.

“It’s very simple,” he said, looking up at his nephew and then back down at the ring. “The engraving’s a nice touch, but women like jewels, you know. Take the other.”

“I prefer this one,” Archer said, taking it back from his uncle.

Sir Edmund stared at him for half a moment longer, and then left him once more to himself, and to his conflicting emotions.

N HOUR LATER,
Archer was standing in the chapel. There were few guests; no one who really mattered. The cold stone structure, though beautiful, felt empty and barren in light of the heartless ceremony about to take place. No, not quite heartless.

An approving nod from the rector provided the signal that the ceremony had begun. Archer turned to see Imogen being led down the aisle by a stately gentleman he understood to be her family’s lawyer. It seemed a shame there was no one else to do it. To have a solicitor lead her to the altar, to “give her away” was all too harsh a reminder that this was little more than a business transaction to some. He closed his eyes to dismiss these thoughts, and when he opened them again, she was beside him. She looked like an angel as beams of sunlight shone down upon her through the leaded glass windows.

Her attention rested resolutely on the rector who stood before them, but Archer could not take his eyes from her. If only they could start over. To be here, now, it was all he’d wanted, and yet…he felt a man condemned. He wanted her, yes. Perhaps she had wanted him. Once. If for a moment only. But now… Great day, what a mockery they had made of it all! But whatever it was, whatever it might yet prove to be, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish—or to loath and to despise—she was now his, and he, wholly and utterly hers. But it was not done yet. If only Archer could focus his attention on the words. The rector had asked of him a question. What was it?
The
question, it seemed. The only one that mattered. Would he? Would he what? Would he have her? Would he love her, comfort her, honour her, keep her, forsaking all others? Yes. Yes of course!

“I will.”

But would she? The question was put to her. How slowly the man seemed to utter the words, as if she were a child and could not quite comprehend them. And then he waited for the answer. The rector nodded. Had she given it? It seemed she had, though so quietly he had not heard.

What must she be feeling? Was there even an ounce of hope fluttering in her heart? He wanted to reach out and touch her. And as if his thoughts had been uttered aloud, or read by another, the glove of her right hand was drawn off and her bare hand placed within his. He held it quite carefully, as though it were fragile as an insect’s wing. Soft and delicate. And his!

The vows were said, and Archer spoke the words as though he had written them himself and they had been meant for her alone. But when it came time for her to repeat the same, he could barely make out her voice. At long last she accomplished it. He ought to have felt relieved, were it not for her reluctant manner. If only he could see her face, to see for himself what emotions played upon it.

Next the ring was handed him. He almost dropped it, but caught it at the last minute. Perhaps he ought to have let it fall. Such was considered good luck but for the risk of losing it. He laid it on the open book of scripture, and it passed to the rector and back again before he placed it on her left hand, now ungloved and naked as the other. For him.

He said the words:
“With this ring I thee wed…”
And he meant it.
“…with my body I thee worship…”
Dear heaven, how he meant it!
“…and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
And he felt a villain. A cursed and abominable villain.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
He whispered the words. They might have been a prayer indeed, were he not so ashamed.
“Amen.”

With her hands in his, they knelt, and the blessing was given. But he could not hear. He could not think. He wanted only for the world to go away so he might draw her to him, to beg her forgiveness and to make her understand how much he wanted her and how he
would
make her happy. Whatever it took. He had made the promise and he would fulfil it.

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder
.
”

It was done. Now he might have his wish. To see her face. To draw her to him at last. He raised his hands to lift her veil, but she displayed a reluctance to have it drawn away. He had revealed enough to see the emotion in her eyes. It was that which he dreaded most to see. Fear. Fear and resignation. But this was not the cause of her hesitation. The bruise, now fully formed in all its many colours, was shielded by his hand from all but him. He had no more desire than she that others should associate the presence of her injury with the product that was this day. To think she was brought to this point by coercion and violence—it was almost more than he could bear. But surely she would accept from him the sign he wished to give her, that this was something far more to him than a merging of blood and position with the wealth that should by rights accompany it. His eyes were on her mouth, full and blushing against her pale skin. But as he raised his gaze once more to meet hers, he knew this was not the place to offer that sentiment. Not with all eyes upon them. He made a compromise. He laid his token, very gently on her injured cheek.

In gratitude, she tried to smile. The futility of it—for the effort only caused a ripple across her lips and did not touch her eyes—might have brought him to his knees had he not been kneeling already. He arose and raised her to stand beside him. Her hands, still uncovered, cold and trembling, wrapped quite tightly around his arm. There they remained until they reached the vestry, where it became necessary for her to release him.

The register lay open on a large table, a pen and inkwell beside it, and this marked the last of the official ceremony. This made it real and binding. Archer signed his name and then watched as Imogen, hesitating for only a moment, signed away her own.

They left the church then, arm in arm together. She clinging to him still. He was encouraged. To have her always thus… He drew in a great breath and only reluctantly let it out again, afraid to lose that feeling, aware that his elation would be brief.

The door of the carriage stood open, the step had been lowered and a footman in full livery stood waiting to shut them in. She faltered at the step. Archer took her elbow to help her and the look she gave him was a pleading one. Was she thinking of escape even now?

“Come,” he said.

She looked at him, as if trying to determine the meaning in that simple word. He might be claiming her as his property, stating the command with the expectation that she would obey. Or he might be calling her home to him. And he was, if she would only see it.

At last she entered. He followed and the door was closed upon them.

Imogen removed her veil and set it aside before daring a glance in his direction. “To think it all began and has ended in a church,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes.

He reached forward and took her hand. “Not ended, Imogen. Don’t say ended.”

She did not answer, and he watched as the first tear left its glistening trail on her bruised cheek.

“Have you no hope at all?

Still no answer.

“None?” he pressed.

“I have some. Of course I do.”

“I will do whatever it takes to convince you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of it,” she said. The cold certainty in her voice chilled him.

“It’s not about the money for me, Imogen. You must know that. I love you, have loved you since the first time I saw you. Tell me you believe me.”

She turned once more to the window.

“Tell me at least you will give me the chance to prove it.”

He waited and at long last her answer was given. It was a silent gesture, but unmistakable. Her hand, slight and trembling, squeezed his. He drew her to him and held her. He would ask no more of her for the present. She had hope. What he had was something surer. He would prove himself, he was absolutely determined. Whatever it took. However long it took. He had made her a promise. And he
would
keep it.