Of Moths and Butterflies (62 page)

She was standing at the mirror when she heard the knock.

S ON A
similar occasion, not four and twenty hours earlier, Imogen was standing at the mirror when she heard the knock at her door. Archer entered, stopped, looked away for a moment while he ran a hand through his hair, looked back and repeated the gesture.

“What is it?” she said.

“Oh nothing. It’s just going to be a long night, that’s all.”

She didn’t understand.

“Crimson, Imogen?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t like being proved wrong.”

She shook her head in puzzlement.

“I’ve always preferred you in blue. I see it’s not your best colour, after all.”

She turned and glanced at the mirror, and then, feeling somewhat encouraged by what she saw, she looked again, harder, and with different eyes. He approached her, and as he laid a warm hand on the small of her back, she did not quail to see the reflection.

“And I’m not to touch you for the whole of the night. Only to look, and to watch as others watch you.”

“There is our waltz, of course.”

He brightened slightly. “Our one, single, solitary waltz.”

“Yes.”

“That is something I suppose.”

His smile, this time, raised the heat of colour to her face.

“It’s rather an important night, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said, and felt his anxiety.

He smiled again, almost wistfully. “I suppose were I to take the liberty of kissing you Mrs. Hartup would knock at the door.”

“Undoubtedly.” And she coloured further, but offered no protestation in word or gesture. She had none to make.

He turned her toward him and examined her for half a moment before bending towards her. He stopped. No knock. He smiled. A little closer and he stopped again. By now she was in anticipation of the kiss, and of the encouragement she wanted very much to receive from it. His lips just grazed hers when the knock came.

A heave of his breath betrayed his frustration. “The woman deserves to be sacked.”

Imogen stifled a laugh.

The knock again.

“We are coming, Mrs. Hartup!” he called, then pulled Imogen very close and kissed her once and long.

“One single, solitary, waltz,” he said with a sigh, and, turning, gave her his arm.

*   *   *

Roger was not the most agreeable of guests this evening. He was tired; he had not slept well. Not in days. His last interview with Imogen had knocked him senseless. As she held onto hope, grasped and clung to it, his flickered and died away. Yet what hope was there for her here? With the thought of the difficulties before her, and how she might yet be rescued from them, he felt hope spark once more. Then die out completely as he observed the couple enter the ballroom; Hamilton looking proudly, even longingly upon his wife; she radiant in red silk and beaming away as if she were the happiest of brides. Good Heaven, she was married! It struck him now as it had failed to do before. Last night, seeing Imogen plainly miserable, playing her part without much effort and with less success, it was quite easy to convince himself he still had the upper hand.

Waking this morning, desperate to rally, he had taken a long walk with his aunt. Julia had little to offer by way of encouragement. She was saddened, and desperately, to see that her niece’s marriage was so far not the success she had hoped for. She was filled with self-reproach to know she might have stopped it had she insisted. She was sorrier still for Roger’s disappointment, which disappointment she must share the burden of. But he could do nothing more, after all, than he had done. He had proved himself her friend, and should Imogen ever need him, she could always call on him. This, Julia told him, was the greatest gift he could give her. That enduring, selfless love of true friendship.

Selfless. If only it were so! But seeing her now, transformed by hope and possessed of a heart fully prepared to return, measure for measure, what it might be offered, he saw in her the infant sparks of a happiness he had been unable to give her. With her husband beside her, the lights twinkling, the air filled with pleasant and animated chatter, music in the background and smiling faces turned to receive her with admiration—as they rightly should—she appeared a woman fully in her element and prepared to take on the world. And in that moment, he knew—Heaven help him!—he knew she was lost to him. She would succeed, and she would do it brilliantly. All he could do was support her in her efforts and wish her every happiness.

He continued to watch as they received and welcomed their guests. Some family of Hamilton’s who had only this evening arrived. Some friends newly formed. Most old acquaintances of Sir Edmunds—strangers to Hamilton and Imogen. They were announced as they entered, and Roger did not pay much attention as the footmen droned on in that monotonous song of meaningless names. One after another. They were all meaningless to him, until…

“Sir Lionel Osborne, third baronet, and his wife, Lady Osborne.”

That man was not supposed to be here! Claire had assured him they had omitted his name from the list. He scanned the room, but it was no use, his gaze could not penetrate the crowd. He looked once more to Imogen, who had turned a sickly shade of pale.

*   *   *

Imogen, upon hearing the name, clutched to Archer’s arm, for support. He looked to her, his brow lowered in concern.

“What is it?”

“I can’t do this,” she said in something not far from a whisper. “Don’t make me do this.”

“What? Now?”

She tried to turn away, but he took hold of her arm and turned her to face him.

“Look at me,” he said. “It is too late to run and hide. I don’t know what this is about, but you cannot cower now.” He continued to hold her gaze, until, at last, she realised he was right. She must stand and face the single breathing representation of all her darkest fears. She schooled her expression and turned, prepared as she was ever going to be, to face her loathsome guest.

“Mr. Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton,” the gentleman before her said.

“Sir Lionel,” she heard Archer answer in return. “Lady Osborne. You are most welcome.”

“The honour is all ours, I assure you.”

Archer presented his wife.

The gentleman offered a polite bow before turning back to Archer. “You have done well for yourself. I congratulate you, Mr. Hamilton.”

And it was only then… Only then did she realise that Sir Lionel Osborne was not the Mr. Lionel Osborne of her horrifying remembrance. Not Mr. Osborne at all, but his father. In this gentleman was the example, at least by manner and appearance, of how different one man can be from his offspring.

Imogen, rather belatedly, offered her hand, first to him, then to his wife.

“My son,” Sir Lionel said, turning to her once more, “has had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, I believe.”

She was suddenly aware of a chill, and then Roger was by her side.

“Yes,” Imogen managed. “I was, at one time, slightly acquainted with him.”

A brief and awkward silence followed, as if he were waiting for something more, some compliment to his son or some such. None was offered.

“He is living on the Continent now,” Lady Osborne said. “In pursuit of Culture, or so he tells us.”

Sir Lionel laughed, it sounded very nearly like a scoff. “Young men these days, always in pursuit of one thing or another.”

“Or in flight from,” Roger said but only loud enough for Imogen to hear.

She turned to him, a question in her look.

“Gambling debts,” was his answer. “And livid husbands and suitors, no doubt.”

She smiled and turned back to Sir Lionel. She had recovered, very nearly completely. She felt quite safe now, protected on either side by friend and husband, respectively.

“And one cannot discount the occasional bloodthirsty cousin.”

She stifled another smile, but kept her attention on Sir Lionel, who was lamenting further upon the state of the modern young and idle.

“It seems they cannot stay in any one place long enough to pin them down,” Lady Osborne added.

Predictably, came Roger’s voice in her ear. “Well they can’t now, can they? Not if they want to stay alive.”

“His letters come to us from every imaginable locale.”

“No doubt they would.” But Roger was overheard this time.

“Have you met my cousin, Lady Osborne, Sir Lionel,” Imogen said, now the young man had caught their attention. “Roger Barrett.”

“Did you know our son as well?” the woman asked.

“Only by name, ma’am,” he said and bowed. “And reputation.” As he could add nothing further, at least nothing complimentary, that awkward silence threatened once more to descend.

“Well,” Sir Lionel said, breaking the tension quite suddenly, “I’m certain I can safely wish you every happiness, on his behalf, as well as my own.”

Imogen took Archer’s arm once more, proudly. Affectionately.

“I thank you most kindly, sir,” she answered. “You may rest assured that we do expect that every happiness will be ours. There are few men more deserving of it than Mr. Hamilton. And I hope I can prove worthy of the honour bestowed upon me in turn.”

Sir Lionel bowed and moved on to greet the other guests.

Imogen turned to Roger, but he too had moved off. She turned back to Archer to find him staring at her most intently.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“What was all that about? The fear and hesitation. And then that! I don’t understand you.”

“It was nothing. I was mistaken, that’s all.”

He continued to look at her.

“Did I say something I should not have?” she asked.

“You make any more speeches like that, my love, and it’ll be a short evening for the both of us.”

For a moment she thought to compete with her gown in colour, but rallied as they were approached once more. Again and again. There was nothing more to fear. Even Sir Edmund was behaving with far more charm and energy than she had ever before seen in him, more than she ever could have imagined he might possess.

But Archer, he was now a man alive. Her words, her encouragement, had suffused him with a purposeful energy of his own. And such could not be hidden or subdued as they continued to greet their guests. Among which were his cousins, those whom Claire had summoned from the far corners of respectable England. They were, each of them, remarkable. Much like Claire, charming and open. When the introductions had been accomplished, and Imogen was safely under their protection, Archer left her, though reluctantly, to make himself known to those Claire had likewise provided for his benefit.

Then came dinner, at which point Archer’s attention was divided from her once more, monopolised this time by his charming and predictably gregarious cousins. There was much to catch up on. And it was right that he should indulge them. Their assistance might yet be required, after all.

Sir Edmund sat at the opposite end of the long table, talking, even smiling, and drinking (perhaps more than he should) with two old acquaintances. By all appearances, he was having a wonderful time.

Imogen, across the table and a few chairs down from her husband, had been talking with Archer’s eldest cousin, Lady Harriet, whose admiration and respect was now fixed and immoveable. But she, being addressed by another guest, had turned from Imogen, granting her a much needed break from conversation. Imogen, taking advantage of the reprieve, allowed herself a moment to appreciate how changed the assembly was from the night before. Mrs. Montegue was present and apparently much recovered. She was carrying on a lively conversation with Julia, into which Muriel tried, at various intervals, to submit her own contributions, and for which efforts she received a not quite approving air from the elder woman. Roger and Claire once more had their heads together, though Roger seemed a vast deal more pleasant this evening. Pleasant enough, it seemed, to induce Claire to broad smiles and the occasional peel of genteel laughter. Satisfied with all she saw, she looked once more to Archer, who, catching her gaze, cast upon her the warmest of smiles. She felt hope flutter and rise once more. The evening, so far, was a success.