Of Moths and Butterflies (64 page)

MOGEN, AT LAST
free of the house and the crowd within, quickly followed in the direction she had seen Sir Edmund dragging the boy. Charlie’s echoing cries and Sir Edmund’s half-whispered remonstrances led her onward toward the east wing cloisters and around the side of the house, but there she stopped again. The echoes produced by the towering Abbey walls were disorienting. Where had they gone? And where was Sir Edmund taking the boy? Within, presumably, but there was nowhere on the ground floor he might be certain of privacy. Except his library. She began in that direction, but stopped again. Voices, then the banging of a door above. They were in the cloisters!

Imogen quickly climbed the stairs and entered the east wing, but she had to wait for her eyes to adjust from the bright lights of the cloisters to the near darkness of the inner corridor before she could continue on. Perhaps she had made a mistake, after all. The east wing, as usual, was ghostly quiet, undisturbed by footsteps or… No. She heard it again. The sound of shuffling, of a cry, and then sharp words not quite whispered.

Rounding the corner, she at last caught a glimpse of them. Through the pale light which shone in the hallway beyond, she could see Sir Edmund dragging little Charlie by one arm as the boy kicked and struggled to be free. They had nearly reached Sir Edmund’s rooms when Charlie at last succeeded in freeing himself. He turned and ran toward the great staircase that led to the main entrance of the house.

“Charlie!” Imogen called out to him.

He stopped, and, squinting into the darkened hallway, he at last recognised her. She held her hand out to him, as she walked quickly toward him. Toward her he ran, but instead of sheltering himself in her embrace as she had expected him to do, he clasped her hand in both of his and pulled her along behind him, silent tears streaming down his face.

“What is it, Charlie?” she begged. “What is the matter?”

“You have to come,” he said. “You have to help her.”

“Help who, Charlie? I don’t understand.”

Sir Edmund, having caught up, held out an arm to stop them as they reached the top of the stairs. He caught Charlie by the collar and pushed him up hard against the wall, holding him still as he rounded on Imogen.

“This is none of your concern. You have guests. Go to them!”

“Let him be,” she said. “What harm has he done you? Let him go!”

“He is supposed to be on a train to London.” Then, turning to Charlie: “Why didn’t you get on that train, boy?”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I went out, and when I came back, my things were packed but my mother was sleeping. She wouldn’t wake. So I came here for help. I came to find Miss Gina.”

“Take me to her, Charlie. Will you?”

“I said this is none of your affair! When will you learn to keep your place, you worthless—”

Charlie struggled again, which earned from Sir Edmund a violent shake.

“Leave him be!” Imogen yelled. “Let him go!”

“Where is the key to his room?”

“The room’s not ready, I did not want guests—”

“Where is the key! Do you have it?”

“No.”

“Get it!”

“I won’t.”

“Do you mean to defy me?”

“I do not belong to you. You cannot order me as though I were a servant, or a dog to do your bidding.”

“You might as well be. You’re good for little else.”

Silence then as they stared each other down, her breath coming hard and fast, his coming thick with smell of alcohol and tobacco. But she was not afraid of him, sorry, drunken wretch that he was.

Charlie struggled once more, and with Sir Edmund so distracted in his mounting fury, he succeeded once more in freeing himself.

“Come, Charlie,” Imogen said far more calmly than she felt, and, holding her hand out to him, she moved toward the staircase. He obeyed and took her hand once more as they began their descent.

“I’m warning you,” Sir Edmund called after her. “You leave this house, Mrs. Hamilton, you’ll not come back into it. You can go the way of that whore Bess Mason, and I dare say we’ll all be better off!”

She cringed with this epithet. For herself. More so for Charlie. But still she refused to listen. Charlie needed her help, and she would help him as she had sworn to do. She led Charlie onward, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her again. She turned to face Sir Edmund, his countenance full of loathing.

“Go, Charlie,” she said. “I’ll catch you up.”

He didn’t move, and Sir Edmund looked to the boy as if he were contemplating how to reclaim hold on him as well.

“Go, Charlie! Run!”

And he did.

Sir Edmund took her then by both shoulders and shook her hard. She fell against the banister, and there remained as it supported her. Sir Edmund, caught off balance, stumbled, one foot sliding from the landing to the step below, and there he remained, leaning against her now, as she braced and steadied herself against the supports. He was slower to recover, and held on to her, not so much in anger, but so as not to lose the precarious footing he held. She was afraid now, of him, yes, but far more of herself, seething with a decade’s worth of rage and resentment. How very like another occasion was this, the episode that had granted her the opportunity to flee home and family, fortune and history. Her hands clasped tightly to the banister rail, if only to avoid the temptation to use them for another purpose. It would be too easy to push him away. To push him down. Down and down, and then…

Sir Edmund at last recovered his footing and was standing once more upon his own feet, yet his face remained just before her, his putrid breath clinging to her flesh, suffocating her. The hand which had been on her shoulder now slid to wrap its bony fingers around her neck as he held her against the wall.

“You filthy, worthless, ungrateful baggage!” he spat out, though his speech had somewhat slurred. “If you had one ounce of appreciation for the place you deserve rather than the place to which you’ve been too precipitately raised… But then it is a rare woman indeed who recognises her place and submits to it as she ought.” His hand lowered once more to her shoulder, and then…

It was all she could take. If she had to strangle the breath out of him with her own bare hands, she would be free of him, and forever if possible. She felt the rage and hatred fuel her. Felt herself give way to it. She released her hold on the banister, her arms tensing in anticipation of the effort that would end this struggle.

“Imogen!”

Sir Edmund released her. They were no longer alone. She was aware of them. Of Roger, who had spoken, of Claire who had followed him. And Archer. She could not bear to look, to see the faces of those who had witnessed her in her murderous fury. She closed her eyes as silent, shameful tears fell.

“I beg you to explain yourself, sir,” she heard Archer demand, and in a voice she had never heard before. One that frightened her.

Silence then. The sound of glasses and laughter, music and chatter went on in the background, but all around them was silence. Sir Edmund took a staggering step or two back, then retreated in the direction of his rooms.

“Pack your things, Imogen,” Roger commanded. “You’re leaving. Now!”

“No!” Archer said, turning to him.

“I think she must,” Claire said. “It should never have come to this. You should have known. We all should have known.”

“No! Not this way!” Archer’s devastation was apparent.

“She’ll go,” Roger said. “With Miss Montegue. Can you leave tonight?” Roger asked of Imogen next.

“Yes,” she said. Then: “No.”

“No?” Roger said, stunned. “This is insanity! You must see—”

“Yes, I see,” she said, suddenly alive to her surroundings. “But not yet. Charlie came here for help, and I mean to help him.”

“You can’t go out,” Archer said stopping her. “Not now. Not as you are. We have guests.”

“I
will
help him. He came to me, looking for me. Because no one else here cares enough to—”

“Stop!”

“I’ll take you, Imogen,” Roger said, stepping forward. “If you insist on going, I won’t deny you. But I will see you safely there.”

She advanced toward the door, but stopped. “I don’t know where she lives.”

“
You
do,” demanded Roger of Archer. “You must.”

“I can’t abandon my guests.”

“But you’ll abandon the child who needs you?” Imogen demanded of him.

“He’s not mine, Imogen. How many times do I have to say it?”

She stepped nearer him. “That was not the question I asked you.” She turned then, and addressed the first footman who appeared. “I need the doctor, Roberts. Will you fetch him for me?”

He nodded and left to attend to the task. She gave Archer one more, accusatory glance, then walked out into the night. Roger following close behind, removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders. They entered an awaiting carriage and the door closed upon them. But they could not leave until the doctor joined them.

“What is this about?” Roger asked her. “What is going on?”

“Charlie needs help. He has never asked me for anything, though he might have done a thousand times.”

“And why should he do that?”

She didn’t answer.

“This is Hamilton’s child?”

She looked to him, but did not answer. She was no longer certain. She turned to look out the window, away from the Abbey.

“Great Day, Imogen! How can you allow—”

“Stop. I won’t listen to you play the hypocrite.”

“The hypocrite?” he said in shock.

“You’ve had your women. That no consequence ever came of your dalliances is merely chance. I won’t have you speak ill of him.”

“Him? Hamilton, do you mean? You’ll defend him even now?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you mean to tell me you—”

“Stop. I won’t hear it.”

He obeyed, though reluctantly, and in his enforced silence, he continued his fuming.

*   *   *

The door of Bess Mason’s cottage stood ajar. Imogen knocked and hesitated a moment before entering. It was terribly cold inside. Cold, dark and musty. The ceiling was low, the windows and the door, even tightly shut, let in a fierce draught. The doctor, entering behind them, struck a match and lit a candle, and then a few more as insects scattered. Imogen took a few tentative steps into the room, but stopped again as she kicked a bottle, sending it reeling across the floor.

“Dear heaven,” she said as she looked upon the table before which she had stopped, and where stood a dozen or more bottles, the likes of which Imogen had never seen. Not in this quantity. Not gathered together as some sort of strange collection.

The doctor lifted one and examined it. “Laudanum.”

“So much of it?”

His brow knotted in consideration and he looked about the room. It was cast mostly in shadow, lit only by the two or three guttering candles newly placed.

“You did not give her these?” Imogen asked of him.

“No,” he said. “Nor can I imagine how she would have afforded such a stash.”