Of Moths and Butterflies (65 page)

“Laudanum is not expensive, I think,” Imogen said now.

“It’s cheaper than alcohol, unfortunately, and, being an opiate, far more dangerous.”

Imogen took up a candle and proceeded onward, looking for the woman. Sleeping, or so she prayed.

She found the single bedroom, and entered. And stopped again. Roger’s arm was suddenly around her and turning her away from the scene.

“Mr. Hendricks?” Roger called to the man. He was instantly at the doorway, and together they pushed Imogen out and entered themselves. There, lying too still upon the mattress, was Bess Mason. Not sleeping, no.

Imogen remained at the doorway, observing as the doctor checked for a pulse, for any sign of life. He shook his head and covered her face with a blanket.

Imogen, finding a chair, sat down in it, reeling from the horror of it all. From somewhere within the room, she heard rustling and scraping. In alarm, feeling now that she was not quite alone, she strained her eyes to see into the near darkness. A silhouette emerged. The figure of a boy.

“Charlie!”

He flew to her, and catching him in her arms, she held him tightly to her.

“It’s all right, Charlie,” she heard herself say. “It will be all right.” But she wasn’t sure it would be.

Imogen started as the door opened again. Archer stepped inside. Relieved to find he had come after all, and yet not knowing what to make of the situation, she did not speak, did not even look at him beyond what was necessary to recognise him. He saw her, watched her a moment as she held the sobbing boy, then entered the other room.

Imogen, from her place, and still holding Charlie as he quietly sobbed into the folds of her dress, tried to listen as the gentlemen discussed what was next to be done. The sexton must be brought, the doctor said. There was no need to wait. Who would attend the funeral of such a woman?

Archer offered the horse he had brought, and the doctor was soon gone.

“She had been ill,” she heard Archer say now. “I knew that. But who would have thought she would come to do something so rash?”

Silence, while Imogen ran her hands through the boy’s hair and rubbed his back. It offered her as much comfort as it did him.

“Is this your doing?” she heard Roger demand of Archer. “Are you responsible?”

Before he could answer, the door opened once more. Wyndham stood within it. His mouth twitched into an uncertain half-smile.

“What brings you here, Mrs. Hamilton?” His gaze lowered and he saw the boy. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Charlie didn’t answer, only held more tightly to Imogen.

“I’m talking to you, boy!”

“Leave him be, Mr. Wyndham.”

Roger stepped out of the bedroom, showing himself.

“What is this?” Wyndham demanded.

No one answered him, and Archer next appeared.

“What is this, I say!”

Still, no one answered.

Offering Archer a deadly stare, Wyndham crossed to the other room and looked within. Then entered.

“Bess?” he called softly, tentatively. Then louder. “Bess?”

“Come, Charlie,” Imogen said, and raised him. He clung tightly to her still, but allowed himself to be lead away.

“Where are you taking him?” Archer asked. “Where are you going?” They were two entirely different questions. A single answer was necessary. For now.

“Home.”

He made no reply, but remained to wait for the doctor’s return with the sexton. To stand guard over Bess Mason’s emaciated and battered body. All had seen her injuries. All but Imogen. No one had dared to speak of them. But neither was Wyndham to be left with her. If only someone had taken such care before.

Not sleeping. No.

RCHER STOOD IN
the centre of his uncle’s library, waiting for an answer. Any answer. Sir Edmund sat silent, his gaze steady upon his nephew. Unmoving, hardly breathing, Archer waited.

“You have quite made up your mind, then?” Sir Edmund said at last.

“Yes.”

“And you have no qualms about turning your back on your home?”

“It has never been a very happy one.”

“On your wife’s fortune?”

“It was never mine. You saw to that.”

“On a title?”

“Your illegitimate nephew. I’ll not presume to more.”

“Devil take you! Is this how you show your gratitude? Without me you’d be some outcast on the streets, with nothing and no one and not a hope of salvation or mercy from anyone. I’ve given you everything!”

“No. Not everything.”

“And she will, will she? What has she given you so far? Nothing!”

“I don’t presume to know what my future holds. All I know is that I cannot ask her to remain here, and I cannot remain where she is not.”

“You pathetic–” Sir Edmund cleared his throat. He was silent for a time. They both were. “When do you mean to go?”

“Soon. I’m not yet sure. She’ll go to Claire. I’ll go on to London, until I can secure something for us both.”

“A separation might prove risky at such a time.”

“I realise that, sir. I have to take that chance. I won’t force her to anything.”

Sir Edmund turned and looked out the window. “No. You’ve made that quite plain already.” Silence again. “They have gone this morning, Mrs. Hamilton and the boy?”

“To visit the grave, yes.”

“No funeral?”

“A few words spoken over unhallowed ground.”

“Wyndham must be relieved. Or will be.”

“Your cruelty amazes me! I suppose you were relieved when my mother died.”

“She left me with you, didn’t she?”

“And I’ll soon relieve you of that burden myself.”

With an oath or two, Sir Edmund stood and seemed on the verge of saying more. But he didn’t. Calming himself, he at last sat down again and turned to look once more out the window. “How did he take it? Wyndham, I mean?”

“Not well,” Archer answered. “He was understandably distraught. Shocked at first, I think. He followed us, blindly it seemed, as we removed her body, as we took it to that burial site in the grove outside the churchyard. He stayed long enough to see it lowered into the ground, but not to see it buried over. He did love her, I think.”

“He’s an idiot, and I mean to tell him so.”

Silence descended once more, and Archer had just determined to leave when his uncle spoke again.

“The guests have all gone, then?”

“Only Claire, Barrett and Mrs. Montegue remain.”

“Ah,” he said. “A motley crew, that. And how long before we are once more left to ourselves, do you think?”

“You’ll be left to yourself quite soon enough, sir. I won’t linger longer than necessary.” Archer turned from the room.

Sir Edmund made no attempt to call him back, and Archer soon found himself standing within the dimly lit entrance hall. The door opened, washing the great hall in brilliant light. Imogen and Charlie were just returning. The sight of her at first surprised him very much, though perhaps it should not have. She was wearing the same black mourning dress in which he had first seen her. He did not like her so well in it now. To see her in mourning once again...

They stopped before him for half a moment. No words were exchanged. Imogen seemed to be waiting for something, but for what he could not guess. They moved on.

“I’m very sorry for you, Charlie,” Archer said, belatedly.

The boy glanced back, bowed his head in a dignified gesture, and walked on.

He felt the need to say something to Imogen as well. But what? He had no words, and so only watched as she ascended the great staircase.

Claire entered the house then, recalling him. “No Wyndham?” he asked her.

“No.”

“And the boy? How is he? How is she?”

“For the present he’s desperately grieved. As you may well understand. He has eaten little, slept much and is generally very quiet and taciturn. Imogen is….” Claire shook her head to imply the rest. “She blames herself, you know?”

“For Bess’s death? That’s ridiculous.”

“Without her assistance, Miss Mason could never have done it. But it isn’t that alone. She provoked your uncle. She blames herself that the party was not a success.”

“But it was. By some miracle, no one was aware of the altercation. My uncle retired early after drinking too much. No one thought anything of it, and I dare say the party took on a livelier tone thereafter. It all worked out better than anyone could have expected.” Indeed it had, and with the announcement of a death in the family, the house, by late morning, was quiet once more.

“Yes, it was a success,” Claire answered. “But there will be no others. Not here. She is not safe. I’m quite worried, really. Wyndham is the vindictive sort, and an opportunist. If he seeks revenge for Bess’s death…”

“Heaven above, Claire! What are you suggesting?”

“I’m simply saying that she cannot leave soon enough. A day or two, I should think. No longer.”

Archer knew not what to say to this. She was right, of course. And yet… “What about Charlie?” he managed at last.

“You will see that he makes it to school, that it is a good school, after all?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“He will be better off there. He will recover faster amidst a change of scenery, with his future before him, no looking back. You have told him, of course. Sir Edmund, I mean. You have told him of your plans?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I don’t know yet. He has not much to say.”

“He will. He’ll not let you go without a fight.”

“I think he cares much less than you suppose, Claire.”

“No. You are everything to him. He will not let you just walk away. Write to the lawyer. Tell him what has happened and all you intend to do. You met one or two last night who might help you?”

“Yes.”

“And you have the other names I gave you?”

“Yes,” he said again and nodded.

“Write to them today. This morning. Meet with them as soon as you can. There is no time to waste.”

He took a frustrated breath.

“Do it, will you? You have told him you mean to leave, you must be sure you are ready to do it.”

“I would like to speak to her first. Before I decide upon anything final.”

“Later. This evening. I will send her to you this evening. You can tell her then what you have not so far. What it is you intend to do.”

“She is not angry? She does not refuse to see me?”

“She does not blame you.”

He was instantly relieved, and it showed. “Barrett is with her, I suppose?”

“Mr. Barrett has taken Gran to the station, and then he’s home to London, I believe,” she answered.

“Ah,” Archer said, and did not know what to make of Claire’s air of disappointment. Nor was he certain what so sudden a departure meant. Of course Barrett would have made his goodbyes to Imogen. That he had not offered any parting word to himself was perhaps understandable. Unexpected, but understandable.

“You have things to do, Archer,” she said recalling him to himself. “And so have I. There is no time to waste.”

“No, of course not.”

She looked at him a moment more, then kissed him on the cheek. “It will be all right. You will see.”

He wanted to believe her, but at the moment, it seemed quite impossible to do.

*   *   *

“Thank you for accompanying me, Mr. Barrett,” Mrs. Montegue said as they sat opposite in the train’s compartment.

“Think nothing of it.”

“I wanted the opportunity of speaking with you, you know, before we parted ways.”

“Oh?” he answered and felt a slight wave of trepidation. Yet several long seconds passed before she offered anything more in the way of conversation.

“The party was quite a success,” she said at last.

“Was it?”

“From where I was sitting, it certainly appeared to be. And I can assure you I was not the only one who thought so.”

“That is a relief. Because from where I stood, it was a thorough disaster.”

“Mmm, yes,” Mrs. Montegue said, and was quiet again for a time. “I wonder, Mr. Barrett...”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Forgive me if I pry.”

He stifled a smile. No doubt she would ask what she would. Her granddaughter was not said to be like her without reason.

“Last night... When you interrupted the unfortunate altercation...”

“Yes?”

“You did not insist that Mrs. Hamilton come away with you, but rather that she should leave with Claire. Why is that?”

“It no longer seemed the right thing.”

“Why?”

“Miss Montegue can do far more for her now than I ever could. She’s in love with her husband. As she should be, though he does not deserve her.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“Not presently, no. But I can see now that he’s truly willing to earn that place. I only hope she can be persuaded to open her heart to him.”

“Can you not help her to find that courage?”

Roger rubbed at the whiskers he did not have and considered, while Mrs. Montegue patiently awaited his answer. “Were I in her position I would simply put the past behind me. But she is not of that make. Honest to a fault, she is. And in a way, it’s a test for him as well. By accepting even that part of her, he will learn to love her truly. But I do not see her being able to tell him something so personal, something so degrading.”

“No.”

She did not go on, though Roger waited. At last he understood.

“You think
I
should tell him her story?”

“I know you have told him a little already, and so from you he has been properly prepared to hear the rest.”

“I’m not sure it would be wise. It would seem to him self-serving, and he would have every right to think so.”

“Perhaps there is another way?”

The look he offered her was a questioning one, but she did not answer it. Not directly, at any rate.

“You are not the type, Mr. Barrett, to give things up readily. And when you do, it is an act of supreme sacrifice. You have the power to help her, and I believe you are willing to go to the extent of those powers to do it.”

Roger considered, and Mrs. Montegue allowed him that time. In fact they travelled in near silence until they arrived at the station, where her nurse and a servant were waiting to collect her. He helped her to disembark and turned her over to her companions. She thanked him once more for his trouble, and he was just preparing to bid her a fond farewell when she offered the last, and perhaps most significant, of her counsel.