Of Moths and Butterflies (46 page)

“What of his secrets, Claire? Will I be able to accept them when they are made known to me, or am I nothing more than a hypocrite?”

“The world is a hypocrite. You are better than that.”

Imogen arose to retrieve from her dressing table a brush. Slowly, thoughtfully, she returned to her place and began brushing out her now dried hair.

“Let me,” Claire said and took the brush from her.

“Archer is a good man, Gina,” Claire eventually continued. “He’s been made to suffer much. He’s been taught to appreciate his dependence and to believe in it. He has made mistakes. Of course he has. But I think you and you alone can persuade him to move past them. Yes, there yet remains his own story, of which he barely understands. And perhaps fears to. What if it proves to be too monstrous for you to bear? Have you considered his own fears in that regard?”

She hadn’t. Not really.

“Which is why he has never taken great pains to understand them for himself. It’s far easier to lay the blame for his unhappy childhood at the feet of the mother who conceived him out of wedlock, and who then abandoned him.”

“She died, Claire. She didn’t abandon him. She died.”

“Yes, of course. But it is always easier to pass responsibility onto another than to take the burden upon oneself. And if Sir Edmund blames her, why should not Archer in turn?”

“It’s not fair.”

“I never said it was. But the fact remains, until he knows you can love and accept him unconditionally, he is not likely to take much interest in uncovering his own history. But he must. It’s a missing piece of him, and without it he’ll never be quite whole.”

“So it’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“It certainly seems that way. I am to love him so that he can find himself. I need to know he will do the same before I can have the courage to reveal all that I must, and therefore give him cause to despise me. It does seem rather impossible.”

“Yes,” Claire said, examining the brush she still held in her hand. “I suppose it does.”

They were both silent for a moment or two, before Imogen once more dared to speak. “I am glad you have come, Claire. It is such a relief to me that you are here now. You will stay? You will not leave me to bear this burden alone?”

“How could I?”

Grateful, Imogen embraced her friend.

“And now I think we should go down,” Claire said when once Imogen had recovered herself. “Your cousin is no doubt anxious to see you.”

“You met Roger on the road to the Abbey?”

“No,” Claire said, laughing dubiously in her apparent irritation. “We travelled together, if you can believe it. From London onward.”

“That
is
an astounding coincidence. But what did you think of him?”

“I know
you
think much of him, dear…”

“Go on.”

“For myself... Well...” She hesitated a moment more, but at last found the words. “I have never met such a presumptuous, pig headed, self-satisfied–”

Imogen laughed.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You seem to have learned him quite well.”

“But you adore him.”

“How can I help it?”

“When he has been less than true in his devotion to you?”

“Yes, Claire. But he has never lied about it. And he does know my history, after all, and loves me still in spite of it.”

“But you chose Archer over him, did you not?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. And I pray every day that I will not learn to regret it.”

“So do I, my dear. But that’s enough of that. Shall we go down?”

Imogen nodded, though she wasn’t truly sure she was prepared, after all, to face both men at once.

*   *   *

Archer, at a loss for any more appropriate place to welcome Roger Barrett, had invited him into the best state room, and had endeavoured to make him both welcome and comfortable. A task which was predictably difficult.

“You’ve come after all, then,” Archer said to him, and taking no pains to disguise his irritation.

“You doubted it?”

“No. Not really. In fact I’d almost expected you to be here when I returned.”

“I meant to be. Possibly I should have been. Something came up.”

“Nothing serious, I trust.” Archer didn’t really care, but it seemed the logical response.

Barrett’s pointed glare indicated he understood the level of his companion’s interest.

They were quiet for some time as Barrett sat and Archer stood drying and warming himself before the fire. At last he thought to offer his guest a drink. Barrett declined but Archer poured one for himself, desperate for anything at all to occupy his hands and thoughts in the awkward silence. And that silence persisted until, at long last, the door opened and Claire and Imogen entered.

Barrett stood to greet his cousin once more and properly, and Archer was left to watch and to envy the warmth of their reunion and the easy and familiar manner with which they received one another.

“You are well?” Barrett asked her.

Imogen nodded and, blushing, looked away.

Claire had by now approached Archer, but he was not yet ready to break his vigil over the scene taking place before him. But it must be broken, and at last it was when Barrett begged Imogen to escort him upon his own tour of the improvements, for which Archer knew full well Barrett could not care less. He was helpless, however, to do other than watch them leave the room. Together.

“What do you mean to do?” Claire asked him once they had gone.

Archer looked at her, uncomprehending.

“She told me about the party. And the guest list.”

“It’s just a party, Claire. An important one, yes, but a party all the same.”

“I don’t care two straws for Mrs. Barton’s social ambitions. Nor your uncle’s. What you will be doing a week from now is presenting Gina to Society as your wife. What happens thereafter, whether she is accepted or ridiculed, is as much your responsibility as hers. Your uncle has stacked the odds against you once again.”

“Ridiculed?”

“And it was not the party alone to which I was referring. It was your uncle, as well. What do you mean to do about him? How do you mean to shield her?”

“I am here, aren’t I?”

“But is that enough?”

“Isn’t it?”

“You are so naïve, Archer. You have a responsibility, don’t you see? The product of an arrangement or not, you wished to make her your bride and you’ve done it. What will you do now to ensure her happiness and safety?”

“You make it sound as if I’ve made no efforts at all in that vein.”

“Not the right ones. Sir Edmund. He has made her time here unpleasant.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“There’s no supposing about it.”

“She told you, then. She would barely speak of it to me.”

“Why should she? What are you prepared to do about it? But to answer your question, no, she did not mention it. And I knew better than to ask. But I know him. I know how he feels about women. I know how he has always treated you, with a mixture of callous tyranny and jealous dependency—and he does depend on you, every bit as much as you depend on him—though he resents it with everything that’s in him. Did you really think he would treat her differently? Do you really believe he might still be persuaded to do it?”

Archer did not answer this.

“You’re a fool if you do.” Claire turned to leave him.

“Claire, please.”

She faced him again. “I don’t care what it takes, Archer. You will set yourself apart from him. If you have to live in poverty, so be it. The better for you both. And you know– You know I will do all I can to help you, but you must help yourself first.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“There is no more time to play the coward.”

“Coward, Claire? That’s very hard.”

“That’s what it amounts to. There is more to this party, I fear, than simply the opening of a house to its rightful opportunities. I’ve come to fulfil my promise to her, Archer. I expect you to do the same. If harm comes to her, if she is made to bear any indignity, any unreasonable hardship while I am here, I will take her away, and you will be on your own until you have proved your worth. And by then, I suspect, it will be too late.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I? Someone must take her under their protection, and if you will not… I bear a responsibility for this as well as you, you know. Had I not interfered, had I not proposed to take her away to begin with, who’s to say any of this would have happened? But Archer, consider your other guest. Do you think he’s come for a different purpose? If Roger Barrett takes it upon himself to play her rescuer, and I have no doubt he is only waiting for the opportunity… If she takes it—and she may—she’ll be irrecoverable to you, then.”

Archer was struck dumb. It was a party. How had the stakes suddenly been raised so high? He could not understand it and, restored once more to his own loathsome solitude, he endeavoured to make some sense of it.

*   *   *

“How are you truly, Imogen?” Roger asked once they were well and safely away from the state room and those within it.

“You’ve asked me thrice now, Roger.”

“Yes, but you’ve not given me a proper answer yet, and I won’t relent until you do.”

“I’m well.”

“You mean to say you are in good health. He’s feeding you, at least.”

“Roger!” she said and laughed.

“I only meant that he is not, by any obvious means, mistreating you.”

“No. Archer’s been very kind. Truly.”

They made their way through hallway and corridor, gazing here and there upon the walls and the portraits that hung there, though Imogen seemed to take a greater fascination in them than did he.

“You are happy, you say?” Roger asked, pressing on with his purpose.

“I am perfectly well,” she said in her most assuring tone.

“Is that so?” he answered. “Then would you mind telling me what combination of circumstances provided that, upon arriving, I should be met by my teary eyed, red faced, drenched to the skin cousin?”

She didn’t answer, and he approached to stand very near her. Near enough to whisper. “Imogen, this is ridiculous. It’s a sham of a marriage. This cannot be what you want.”

“What I want?” she answered tentatively, her voice quavering and her eyes flashing. “What happened to ‘Let yourself love and be loved. Let yourself be happy?”

With a huff of breath, he looked away.

“You, at least, will not accuse me of not trying.”

“And
are
you happy, then?”

“I want to be,” she said in what was very nearly a whisper.

Roger reached out, and in an instant clutched her to him. And Imogen, once more in familiar arms, made no effort to resist, but sought solace in his embrace.

“What did you think? That you could change him? That you could change his uncle? Do you think now that you can make this house a home, make peace where none ever before existed?”

“What I think does not matter. It’s what is expected of me. I have no choice, for my sake, for his, but to try.”

“And what am I to do? Am I to stand by and observe it all as a not quite disinterested, but ultimately selfless friend?”

“Yes,” she said and looked up at him. There were no tears. They had been spent already. “If you are here, I cannot despair utterly, can I?”

“Don’t ask that of me. You have this party to host. If it does not accomplish what you hope, don’t think I’ll leave you here to suffer the consequences.”

She seemed to consider this for a minute. At last she laid her head once more on his shoulder. “Truly, Roger, I’m so glad you have come. Without friends, I’m not sure how much more I can endure.”