Of Moths and Butterflies (56 page)

They were not quite to the first landing when the whispering began.

RCHER, UPON FIRST
entering the Abbey that afternoon, had done so prepared for battle, certain that his uncle would wish to question him at the earliest opportunity, and more than adequately armed with his own arsenal of questions. But, instead of a house full of bustling activity and nervous tension, he had found it an example of serene orderliness. He stopped before the library door and knocked. There was no answer.

Mrs. Hartup, with a vase of flowers, entered the hall on her way to one of the state rooms.

“My uncle,” he had asked of her, “is he–?” He indicated the rest with a nod of his head in the direction of the library door.

“He’s been in there all morning, sir,” was her answer to him. “The doors are locked and he’ll see no one.”

Archer tried the door nevertheless.

“No one, Mr. Hamilton.”

With a frustrated breath, Archer resigned himself then to wait. “My wife?” he had asked the housekeeper next, and just as she had begun to move off again. “Do you know where I might find her?”

But the only reply he had received for this was a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

He mounted the staircase, determined to find her for himself.

“Archer!”

He turned.

“Thank heaven you’re home. Where have you been?”

“You know where I’ve been, Claire.”

“A day, maybe two, yes. But four?”

“I am sorry. I’d have returned sooner if it had been possible.”

“I won’t ask you what you learned. I can see you’re in no mood to talk about it.”

“Do you know where she is, Claire?”

“No. I’ve not seen her this morning. Only…”

“What is it?”

“If she is not in her own room, Archer, or mine, you might try your mother’s.”

“My mother’s?”

“Don’t ask me. It’s just a hunch. Now go. She’s been very anxious.”

He found her just as Claire said he might. All the anger and confusion that had been mounting these last days died upon seeing her there. And the look she had cast on him... Heaven help him! He had nearly come undone then and there. But no. He needed answers first. He would deceive her no further. There were questions that must be answered before he could share any part of his adventure with her. But seeing her, she turning to him as if she too had been under the same oppressive cloud of uncertainty, he was recalled to his purpose. Only he was no longer sure what that purpose was. To make her happy, yes. To provide for her, to protect her and love her, certainly. But how to do it was no clearer to him now than it had been when he had left the Abbey four days ago. She had turned to him, as if to welcome him. But she had knocked him senseless with her question. Was it possible Sir Edmund had been in love with his mother? Of all the things she might have asked, why that? As if she were pointing him to the conclusion he dreaded most to make.

Leaving her unanswered and confused, he went once more to the library door and knocked. Still there was no reply. He knocked again. And was just about to call out when the entry door was opened by the butler, half a dozen maids and two footmen, all new to their posts, it seemed. Together, the party stepped out of doors. There was some commotion, the sound of many voices, and then there was Imogen, at the top of the first landing, looking bright eyed and flushed. Her gaze met his for an instant.

“My aunts have come,” was all she said. Then she was gone, having followed in the wake of the servants. She returned, a moment later, arm in arm with Mrs. Julia Barrett. Mrs. Ellison entered next, directing the footmen (who knew far better than she what they were about) and intermittently commenting upon all she saw.

“It was very wise of you, Imogen, to hire this work out. The improvements are something, but I always knew you would find them far beyond your capabilities.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“Sir Edmund must be very grateful. Mr. Hamilton too, I have no doubt.”

Mrs. Ellison, having just observed the latter gentleman, approached with her arms opened wide.

“Mr. Hamilton, it is so very good to see you,” she said and dipped a curtsey, even though she’d already dared the informal approach by kissing him on both cheeks. “You are well? You do look it. Rather tired, I think but…” She stopped and flushed crimson. “Well, that’s no matter,” she continued, trying to repair the damage she had not caused. “You are a very busy man, of course.”

“Of course,” was all he could think to say, as Imogen looked off in another direction.

“It is good to see you again,” Mrs. Barrett added. Her greeting was kind, though short. It necessarily had to be, for Mrs. Ellison had already moved on toward the guest rooms.

They were not quite to the second landing when the whispering began. Archer could not hear the words, but he could guess the subject well enough.

For Imogen, there was no need to guess. She heard it, and was meant to hear it, and would hear it again and again over the next few days.

“Mr. Hamilton hardly looks the happy husband, Imogen. Have you been quarrelling?”

“Of course not, Aunt. As you said yourself, he’s been very busy.”

“He looks as though he has not slept in a week.”

“He’s been from home. He returned about an hour ago.”

“From home? At a time like this? Why, you’ve not been married long enough that he should be going from home for days at a time.”

“It was a matter of urgent business or I dare say he would not have gone at all.”

“It takes time, I’m sure, to learn how to please a husband. All the little things one must know to do. When he likes to rise, when he wishes to have his breakfast, whether he likes to have the post or the paper. When he wants company and when he prefers to be alone…”

She continued on in this manner, while Julia looked on sympathetically, and Imogen bore it all with an air of perfect equanimity, not a drop of which she actually felt.

*   *   *

Archer was still standing in the hall a quarter of an hour later, uncertain what to do with himself, or where to go. All he knew was that he must speak with his uncle. And his uncle was there, just a matter of feet away, but with a door locked and bolted between them. It was there that Claire found him once more.

“Archer, you cannot just stand there looking like a bedraggled and ill-used statue. You have guests arriving as we speak. Bathe. Dress. Rest for an hour, if you can. This won’t do at all. Not if you want to convince anyone that you have an ounce of self-respect.”

“Barrett is around, I suppose?”

“Yes, but I have him helping me at the moment, and I won’t spare him.”

“Helping you? How did you manage that?”

“Don’t ask. It wasn’t easy. But I did have to find something for him to do. No one has been more anxious for you than Imogen. But I think no one has been more anxious for her than he.”

Archer regretted this, but could not refute it. He’d not been here, after all. He could not know what anxieties anyone had borne besides himself. “So you’ve taken him under your management?”

“As you have not been here, who else am I to take in hand? And I must take someone, you know, or I am utterly beside myself for a useful purpose. But now you are home and in need of managing. So go. Pull yourself together and clean yourself up.”

Reluctantly, he did as he was bid. While the guests continued to arrive.

*   *   *

Mrs. Barton knocked at the library door. Mrs. Hartup had warned her that Sir Edmund was refusing all visitors. He would see her. She was quite certain of it.

To her first appeal, she received no answer.

“Edmund, it’s me. May I come in?”

She heard the chair move across the floor, heard the footsteps approach. The door opened, though he did not look at her. Running a hand through his grey-white hair, he held the door for her entrance. She stepped inside. The door closed again, and he returned to the chair at his desk. He looked around the room for a moment or two, at the shelves, now filled, at the crates that sat upon the floor, the straw that littered the room. He looked up at her, seeming only then to realise she was there at all. She remained standing.

“You’ve come,” he said.

She took a chair and tried to make herself comfortable. “After all the trouble we’ve taken, did you think I would not?”

He did not answer but watched her absentmindedly before returning his attention to the room and its contents, as though searching for something.

“This party is as much for us, after all, as it is for the young people. Of course I would come.”

He answered this with a dismissive grunt that was half laugh, but he offered nothing more. He arose then, to peruse the empty and half emptied crates, to sort through papers, through books, and letters, then laying these aside, he shifted his gaze once more to the shelves before turning back to the desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” He sat down again, rubbing his face before setting to work with the papers before him, sifting through them, sorting them, never looking at anything long enough to really read it.

“I asked you what you are doing? What is wrong with you? You look as though you’ve just found yourself in another man’s study.”

Sir Edmund heaved a great sigh and at last met her gaze.

“You left rather suddenly,” she said, prompting him for some dialogue.

“Yes. I suppose I did. But then it was you who persuaded me I should.”

“I’m not sure that was my intention. I only thought it wise to warn you—”

“Yes. Well, your warning was rather timely, as it turns out.”

“Oh?”

“I returned home to find Archer gone, Claire Montegue managing all and Mrs. Hamilton in the arms of her lovelorn cousin. And someone–” He stopped.

“Yes?” she prompted him, waking him from the reverie he seemed persistent to fall into.

“And someone, while I was gone, while the contents of the library were being stored in my rooms, took the liberty of going through them.”

Surprised by this, and a little alarmed, it took her a moment to collect herself enough to form the question. “Who?”

“Well, it could only have been one of two people, couldn’t it? The first, and most likely in light of your warning, has never, to my mind (and I admit I’ve counted on the fact that it would always be so) possessed the gumption for such a feat. The other wouldn’t have the first clue what to look for or how that information could possibly serve him.”

“Wyndham.”

“As I said, I don’t think Archer has it in him. He is not of that make, or at least I’ve always counted on his sense of honour to keep him dutiful. But he’s been stirring up trouble in Town. Asking questions, trying to dig up the past. I don’t believe he’d do this. But if it wasn’t him, it’s a remarkable bit of coincidence.”

“What was he looking for, whoever it was?”

Sir Edmund cast upon her a blank look.

“Did he find it, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? But you said—”

“I can’t figure out what’s missing. Perhaps nothing, after all. But something’s not right and I can’t place my finger on just what. Archer’s been gone four days. He’s just returned this morning. Wyndham, usually on my heel at every turn, has not been seen, not by anyone so far as I can tell.”