Of Moths and Butterflies (68 page)

Nothing. No answer. Not even an attempt to reply. Sir Edmund dropped once more into his chair, coughing and tired. Archer hated to leave him, but he could not bear to remain any longer with this lecherous, deceitful, murderous man who now, twenty-five years later, called himself his father.

He turned and left the room, nearly running into the footman on his way out. “The doctor has come, sir,” he said.

“Good. Very good.” Now he could leave him without a shred of guilt or misgiving. “Will you tell my wife, and the others, that it is safe to return to the house? And if Mrs. Hamilton is willing, I’d like the opportunity of speaking with her.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said and left.

RCHER SAT IN
his room, facing the doorway that led to the room beyond. Hers. He needed to see her, to speak to her. But what to say? How much could he tell her, now, as she was preparing to leave him? How much dared he hold back? To form the words, though… It was beyond his ability to imagine. Before he was quite ready, the door opened and there she stood. He looked at her, saw the anxiety in her eyes and looked away, unwilling to accept that he deserved such sympathy from her. Not now, if ever.

She entered and stood just before him. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“And the fire?”

“Deliberate.” He glanced to see her reaction. There was none.

“Wyndham.”

He should not have been surprised by her answer. “Yes.”

She knelt beside him. “What next? Who next?”

“Shhh,” he said, his brow lowered and still avoiding her gaze. “You’re safe. Or will be soon enough.”

“I believe you.” And as if to offer some evidence, she laid her hand on his arm.

He released a self-deprecating exhale of laughter but said nothing more.

“You
are
hurt.”

“No,” he said again.

“Yes, you are. Look!”

He did look, and found that his shirt had been torn and the exposed skin of the shoulder beneath had been burned. Having now realised his injury, he began to feel it as well.

Imogen immediately fetched the wash bowl and the water, and then a few rags, and having wetted one, and holding it, hesitated.

He looked up at her. She appeared anxious still, and yet a trifle abashed.

“I’m afraid I’ll need you to–”

“What?”

With a gesture, she indicated his shirt.

“Ah, yes,” he said, and began to unbutton it. Only his hands trembled and he could not quite manage it.

“Let me,” she said.

With uncertain fingers, she freed the buttons. He removed one arm and then attempted to do the same for the other, but the fabric stuck to the recently formed and lacerated blisters.

“One moment,” she said, and turned back to her room.

To return a minute later with scissors. And with a steadying hand at the base of his neck, she endeavoured to cut away the shirt. Quickly and carefully she worked, while he focused his attention on the cool hands that touched his fevered skin.

“It is very bad, I’m afraid,” she said now that the greater part of his shirt had been removed.

“You needn’t do it if you don’t want to. The doctor’s come, after all.”

“No,” she said, and went on with her work, placing the wet rag that she might persuade the wound to give up the last remnants of his ruined shirt.

While she worked he returned to his thoughts. Inescapable now, they sucked him under, interrupted only when some sharp jab of pain recalled him. The touch of her hands on his skin soothed him once more, and reminded him that his battle had only begun. What more must he endure? He considered this for a time, while she finished her work, cleaning and then dressing the wound. And he remained considering until he was recalled by her voice.

“Is Sir Edmund all right?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he answered, taking no pains to disguise his bitterness. “If he needs anything he knows how to get it.”

Her reply was offered softly, regretfully. “Very well.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking the hand that rested on his shoulder and drawing her around to face him. “He was not injured. He inhaled a great deal of smoke, though, and suffers in consequence. The doctor has come, as I said. He’s in good hands.”

Tentatively, she reached to him and laid her fingers on the bandages just placed there. She smoothed them, straightening and checking her work. He observed her trembling hands, the anxiety in her eyes, higher now than half an hour ago.

“Are
you
all right?” he asked her.

Her smile was sweet, but it was clear she was only just holding together.

“I should be asking
you
the question,” she said.

“You have already. And I’ve answered it as best I can at present. It’s your turn.”

She didn’t answer him, and recalling how distraught she had been to have him enter into the flame engulfed library, he realised how his shocked and troubled silence had only magnified her concerns. He reached out to her, to comfort her. To comfort himself as well. To assure himself of the reality of her presence, now, when she should be fleeing him and this confounded prison of a house.

Not quite in full possession of himself, his fingers touched the silken material of her gown, Claire’s gown. No. He wanted her. He loosened the tie of the robe and it fell open. Beneath she wore only a chemise, low at the neck and cut well above the ankle. She did not shy from him as he raised his hands, both now, to spread the robe wider, to feel the warm softness of the woman beneath. As the folds of her linen chemise gave way to his touch, he felt his anger and bitterness melt away. And he ached. He stood, drawing her toward him. He thought to kiss her, really kiss her, and in her forget his pain and anguish, his rage and confusion, to find his home, his sanctuary from the world. To find her. How much would she allow? How much did he dare ask of her now? He searched her gaze, and finding there an uncertainty only, an anxiety but no objection, he drew her closer to him and pressed his lips to hers, infusing into himself just a bit of that soul’s courage she seemed so willing to bestow. And he needed it, needed her like it was life or death. He explored her unrestrained body, the curves and contours. He could feel her heart pounding, her chest rising and falling. Her breath caught suddenly as his hand grazed her breast. She stiffened. She did not pull away, but she was right. Now was not the time for this.

Recalled now to the reality that was a nightmare, to all the secrets and lies and misdeeds he could not bring himself to speak of, and of those she had yet to confide, he stopped. And held her from him.

“You should go.”

“I—”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes rested at her slippered feet, at her bared ankles. He dared not raise them higher.

“Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”

His heart broke. How could she ask such a question? Harder still, how was he to answer it? “No,” he said, nearly whispered. “Never.”

“Then why?”

“I’ve wronged you. I wrong you more by asking this of you now.”

Her look, still stoic, yet betrayed some tremor beneath, as though her equanimity were only on the surface, just ready to give way.

“You’ll go tomorrow,” he managed to say. “As planned.”

A tear spilled and he turned away from her to hide his own. He held it in and did not release the great heaving and shuddering sobs until he heard the door close and latch between them.

MOGEN HAD RETURNED
to her room unprepared for sleep. Her shame and confusion were indescribable. Her anxieties unbearable. She sat herself down upon her bed, the tears streaming and the blood rushing. In her wish to offer comfort, she had been prepared to let down every wall. And, if only for a moment, she had done it. All this time she had been waiting for her fears to subside. What she had not expected was that an overwhelming desire would overcome them. But it seemed, after all, he did not want her.

She looked at the trunks laying around her bed, indistinct shapes in the darkness, mouths gaping wide. The thought of leaving him now, with such burdens to bear as were presently his, whatever they were, it seemed impossible. Yet he wished for her to go. And so, go she must.

*   *   *

It was very late when Imogen arose the next morning. And quiet. Hastily she dressed and left her room, checking first on Charlie. He had gone out, she was told, for a long walk with Miss Montegue. She went next to Sir Edmund’s rooms. The doctor was there still, had sat up with him through the night. He assured her that the man had sustained only the most minor of injuries, yet his coughing caused the doctor the greatest concern. A draught had been prescribed, and regularly administered. Still, Sir Edmund’s coughing persisted. He did not sleep, only lay there, his head turned toward one blank wall, unwilling to speak, hardly answering when spoken to. A brief glimpse of his profile revealed a man two decades older, careworn and spent. It was as if a shadow rested upon his countenance, darkening his eyes and casting an unhealthy pallor over his skin. But there was nothing she could do here. He wanted no one and would only allow Mr. Davis and the faithful Mrs. Hartup to attend him.

Imogen went downstairs to the library, where several men were busy removing the soiled and damaged rugs, curtains, and sundry items of furniture so they might be cleaned, aired and repaired. Or discarded, as circumstances required. Every window and door in the room was opened wide. The smoke had mostly dissipated, though a smell of charred wood and wet ashes remained. Archer was sitting at his Sir Edmund’s desk, carefully studying a stack of letters. His head he rested on one hand as his fingers rubbed at his temple.

“Did you sleep?” she asked him.

He started and looked up, only then realising her presence. “Yes,” he answered. “A little.”

“How is your shoulder? Do you need the bandages changed?”

“Mrs. Hartup has already seen to it,” he answered and returned his attention to the letters before him.

She was a little disappointed for this. “You have seen Sir Edmund this morning, then?”

“Yes,” he said, through a jaw firmly set.

She entered the room and shut the door as the last of the men left them. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“I’ve told you already.”

“Yes, you told me there was a fire, that it was deliberately set. But there is something more you have not told me. I want to know what it is.”

“You have packing to do, I believe.”

“You insist I go?”

“It’s for the best.”

“Have you learned to despise me so much?”

His brow lowered. “I’m trying to protect you, that’s all.”

He did not look at her, simply stared at the papers before him. Yet she waited for more. For anything more.

“It seems I have wronged you at every turn. I won’t be guilty of repeating the sin. When we have all the facts before us, your history, mine, everything—no more secrets, no more lies… Until then I have need to protect you from myself as much as Wyndham or my–” He cleared his throat. “Or Sir Edmund.”

“He has told you, then.”

He turned his head to her but did not quite meet her gaze.

“He’s told you about your parents. Who they were. What your history is.”

Archer released a mirthless laugh.

She approached the desk to stand just beside him. “Will you tell me? I want to know.”

“He has sent for his lawyer. You’ll hear it from him.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“You cannot ask me to explain what I can barely comprehend.”

She had no reply to offer. Yet the semblance of so much formality seemed to auger a sense of doom.

“I’ve sent for Mr. Watts. I hope the lawyers will be able to come together, but that I’ve had to leave in his hands to arrange.”

“What does this mean?” she asked him.

“I’ve told you. I mean for you to understand all. I cannot presently do it. But you must know. You have a right to know.”

“Archer, please.”

He did not answer her, and no further amount of pleading would move him. She turned and left him, as he no doubt wished for her to do.

Imogen returned to her own room, to wait, unable to concentrate on anything but the passage of time. At last the lawyers arrived, and arrived together. It was another hour or more before she was summoned, once again, to the library.

The gentlemen arose as she entered. Mr. Watts took her hand and greeted her warmly, and did not let her go once they were seated. This too seemed an ill omen. Archer and Mr. Graves remained standing.

“I was informed I would find some letters and papers?” the lawyer said to Archer.

Obediently, Archer handed him a portmanteau.

Mr. Graves opened it and pulled out the contents. “Have you read these?”

“Only the one addressed to me.”

Mr. Graves looked this over and then returned it to Archer, who, in turn, gave it to Imogen. She read it, but she knew not as yet what to make of it outside of what he had told her earlier. It was merely instruction, telling Archer to expect the lawyer and to send him at once to Sir Edmund, from whence that man had just come. Except for a rather veiled apology, the remainder of the letter was written so cryptically as to prevent her understanding it.

Archer had now fixed himself at the far side of the room, leaning against the mantle of an empty fireplace. Mr. Graves took his position at the desk and, sorting through the papers, began to examine them, one by one. At last he put these down and, removing his glasses, he looked alternately from Archer to Imogen.

“Last night,” the lawyer began at last, “an intruder entered the house through this library and carried away with him some documents. He appears to have been both discriminate and calculating. What he took, however, cannot benefit him in the way he believes it will. This would be of little concern were it not for the fact that he has already shown a tendency toward violence, and this inspired by jealousy and an appetite for vengeance. There’s no doubt, judging from what he did manage to take, that he means to do Sir Edmund Barry, as well as yourselves, some considerable harm. At the very least, he means to publicly ruin you. But I would not hesitate to speculate that his intentions may be far more villainous yet.”

Imogen looked to Archer, who had turned his attention out of doors.

“This is why I must go?” Imogen asked of him.

He made no attempt to recognise her question, nor to answer it. His gaze remained fixed upon the glass panes of the window, and what lay beyond.

“There is more, Mrs. Hamilton. Mrs. Barry, I should say.”

“Barry?” she answered in shock. She had drawn the conclusion before now. At least she had considered the possibility. She had not thought what it would mean to her personally. To share the man’s name… She swallowed hard and tried to look unaffected. It was difficult to do.

Mr. Watts held her hand all the tighter, which did not inspire the confidence it seemed was his intention to bestow.

“I have a letter here I would like to read,” said Mr. Graves. “I beg your pardon beforehand. It is not quite delicate.”

“Go on,” she said, anxious to get the worst over and to know where she stood.

Mr. Graves read, relating, in Sir Edmund’s own words, the story she had heard already from Mrs. Montegue, only slightly altered, of Sir Edmund’s dealings with Archer’s mother, and confessing that, as a result of the greatest of wrongs performed upon a woman by a man, Archer was conceived. And that, in his shame, Sir Edmund had endeavoured to hide his misdeeds by bestowing upon his son a name—and a position—that was not rightly his own.

So much made sense now, why Archer should be referred to as Sir Edmund’s bastard nephew, despite the obstacles, the heartache it must naturally have caused him. Better Archer should suffer for the wrongs imposed upon his mother than that Sir Edmund should bear any responsibility.

Mr. Graves went on, explaining that, in this lie, and unable to recompense earlier, when he easily might have done, Sir Edmund married his nephew by coercion to the girl of his choice. Under a name that he had been known by for five and twenty years, but which was not his, Archer had taken out a marriage licence. In ignorance, he signed the certificate and registry in that same name, leaving he and his new wife open to be preyed upon by any opportunist with a great enough desire to see them destroyed. Such an opportunist was already in the making, by way of Sir Edmund’s truly illegitimate son, Miles Wyndham, who now, realising his error, bereft of his mistress and having his son veritably removed from his reach, had every reason in the world to wreak havoc and revenge. And there could be no doubt he would. Indeed, he had already struck the first blow.

Imogen looked up as Mr. Graves finished. Archer had not moved from his place beside the window. The tears she had fought to keep back came now, but they were mixed with anger as Archer refused to look at her. Why must he treat her so indifferently
now
? She had resolved to let him in, and she thought she had done it. But it seemed that with every effort, every success to draw nearer him, circumstances must drive them apart.

“The facts of the matter are these,” Mr. Graves continued. “As far as any inheritance is concerned, property and fortune go to Mr. Barry, the recognised son. You were forced to this marriage, Mrs. Barry. You have been rather infamously treated. If not by Mr. Archer Barry, then by his father—for whose benefit the marriage was arranged. Coercion is adequate grounds for an annulment. In this case, the offending parties resorted to violence to achieve their aims.”

“Violence?” Imogen repeated, confused.

“You were struck when you raised objection to the plans, were you not?”

She turned to Mr. Watts with a questioning look. In answer he pointed to her cheek. She raised a hand to the forgotten injury.

“Furthermore, there is no reason to believe that any children might issue from this marriage. Such is not imminent, I believe.”

Imogen, speechless, only shook her head in answer.

“You have not consummated your marriage?”

“Is this manner of questioning really necessary?” Archer protested.

“No,” Imogen said, answering the lawyer.

“Then there should be little difficulty.”

“There is certainly some difficulty,” Imogen said, with tears swimming.

“Well, of course it cannot be as if you were never married. You have lived together for these many weeks. You very recently held a party to celebrate the marriage. These are certainly worth some consideration, but these are hardly your greatest concerns.”

“It’s out of the question,” Imogen said.

Mr. Graves cleared his throat. “If you object to an annulment, you might instead wish to consider a separation.”