Of Moths and Butterflies (73 page)

“And you did protect me. You saved me. And in more ways than one, I think.”

He cast a puzzled expression upon her.

“I have chosen to stay. I have chosen you. He is gone now. He can do us no more harm. There is nothing left to fear. We are free.”

He looked at her for half a moment more, then taking her hands in his, drew her to him and held her. But she soon drew away, as though protecting herself, and he might have been hurt had he not recognised the longing in her eyes as she looked up at him.

“When?” she asked. “How much longer?”

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

She shook her head.

He smiled, and asked, teasingly, “Can you wait so long?”

“Can you?”

“Well, I have no choice, do I?” and his gaze shifted to indicate Mrs. Hartup who had just entered the room.

Imogen arose and prepared to follow Mrs. Hartup out, that they might see to the last of the preparations, and that she might have an opportunity to rest her now jangled nerves. She turned back to him at the door.

“The Blue Morpho,” she said. “Was that the one you were looking for?”

“Yes,” he answered, puzzlement on his otherwise troubled brow. “How did you know?”

“That was the one I saw. I set it free.”

Archer gave her a stunned look. It was not possible. And yet… She had known that insect well. They both had. Could it be? Free of Wyndham, free of the threat of further danger, free of oppression, what was left but for Psyche to free her trammelled soul? And so, it seemed, she had.

April 1882

MOGEN AND ARCHER
entered the parish church that morning, hand in hand. There was no one to give the bride away. There was no need that it should be done. Though the chapel stood empty, it was nevertheless full of sunlight and hope. Quite different indeed from that windy autumn day when they had first met here. And it was quiet, for no one but they need know of this most private and sacred of ceremonies. It was for them alone.

Mr. Ashcombe began. As on that previous occasion, Archer could not take his eyes from his bride. She wore the same gown, though without the veil, revealing her beaming and happy face. Indeed her manner was so altered she might have been a different woman.

“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

Archer cleared his throat.

Parson Aschombe looked up from his book. “Mr. Hamilton?”

“It is true that I have been married before.”

“That is an impediment, indeed,” he said gravely, then smiled. “But as it was to the same woman, I think we can overlook it.”

Imogen nudged him and he laughed. The parson’s smile broadened.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” Archer answered, looking to her rather than at the parson. No need to guess her feelings this time. They showed quite plainly.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband
,” the parson asked next of her, “
to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” she said, and looked to him.

The vows next. He turned to her. She offered him her gloved hand, palm up, fingers gently curled. On that previous occasion, it had been given him by another. It had been ungloved by another. Not this time. He held her hand in one of his own, and with the other, he carefully unfastened the buttons.

With her hand in his, Archer spoke the vows as he had done before, as though he had written them himself and they had been meant for her alone.

Her vows now. And instead of tripping and choking over the words she was uncertain she meant, she said them with earnest intent.

The ring was presented. His mother’s ring, and she would wear them both. But first to unglove the other hand. He did it slowly, deliberately, making the most of the liberties she, and Parson Ashcombe, were prepared to allow. He kissed it. Then took the ring. But it slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor, ringing and clattering and echoing through the chapel. Superstition dictated that by such happy accidents all ill-intentioned spirits were freed of the object. That he had dropped it (by accident of course) was considered the best of luck.

Imogen looked at him with the merest hint of suspicion. He smiled sheepishly. It was accidental enough.

The ring recovered, Archer placed it on the book of scripture, upon which it was blessed. Taking it up once again, carefully now, he slipped it onto her finger.

“With this ring I thee wed…”
And he meant it.
“…with my body I thee worship…”
Dear Heaven, how he meant it!
“…and with all my worldly goods I thee endow:”
And he had every right to mean it! This time.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

They knelt, as the blessing was given. A new blessing. A better blessing.

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder
.
”

“Amen!” They said together and loudly.

Archer stood and raised his bride—his wife!—to her feet, and kissed her as the bells rang out.

One last thing and he could take her home. The registry! Or rather, the document that would amend that which they had signed in London. He wrote his name deliberately and carefully. Archer Hamilton Barry. And she hers, no different than before, but differently to be sure. For this time she was well and truly ready to relinquish it. Having finished all, sealed all, united herself to him in mind and heart and spirit, if not in body—yet—she placed her hand within his and they made their way to the Abbey. Home.

*   *   *

It had been a long day. Much longer than Archer would have liked. Mrs. Hartup had arranged to have a proper wedding breakfast laid out for them. The staff were given the day off to enjoy the celebrations, and they made the most of it. Imogen had still to see to the removal of her things from Claire’s room to her own. With the servants off, she took it upon herself, attending to this and to any and all other trifling necessities she could think to accomplish, fluttering and flitting about the house as she went, and looking for all the world like some half-crazed insect. Archer was not about to give chase now. He had waited long for this day. If it was necessary to wait a few hours more for her to be ready to receive him, then he would.

He had things to see to of his own, after all. There was much to be done in the way of setting to rights many of Sir Edmund’s wrongs. And so he took himself to the library to see what might be done in that way. Only he could not concentrate.

Yet he remained, until the sky grew dark and the house quieted. It was then Archer ventured upstairs.

The door between the two rooms stood open, and Archer entered hers, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs that was arranged around the fireplace. No fire burned tonight. It had been a warm day and so there had been little need of it. As she fluttered about, refusing to land anywhere, he entertained a vain wish that, in so far as the weather was concerned, it had not been so pleasant a day, that the lack of comfort in her room would draw her to his own, as it had done on that unseasonably cold night not two weeks ago. He waited, but she was too determined in her restlessness. He continued to bide his time and while he did, he thought more about that night, and his desire for something like a repetition of it increased. He realised, in his contemplation, that, although it had been the cold that had persuaded her to find shelter in his room, it had not been that that had kept her there. It had been something else entirely. A need to be near him, to be protected by him, to understand and to be understood. Could she be so encouraged again?

He arose and approached her. She turned and looked up, a familiar anxiety burning in her bright eyes. He would make no demands of her. That promise, even now, he determined to keep. What she gave him she must do by her own free will and choice. But if he could encourage her to do it...

“Are you tired?” he asked her.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so. You?”

“Exhausted,” he said. And then he bent over her, kissing her tenderly, then, more earnestly, but always gently. He kissed the fullness of her bottom lip and then her top, and held her safely to him, eagerly receiving what she began tentatively to return. And just as he felt her surrender to him, he released her.

“Good night,” he said.

The look in her eyes was what he had most hoped to see. Startled, bewildered. Disappointed.

He left her room for his own. But he wasn’t there long before she appeared in the doorway, interrupting him in his preparations for bed. Which was likely her intention. It was as if she meant to stave off the awkward hour indefinitely. She stood there, watching him, and he met her gaze for a moment or two before continuing on with his preparations. He had removed his tie and waistcoat already. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and loosened the hem from his waist so that it hung free.

“Do you need your dressings changed?” she asked him.

“Probably.”

The things she needed were conveniently nearby. She retrieved them while he removed his shirt and then sat down in the chair beside the table. She removed the old bandage and gently cleaned the wound before wrapping it again. Finished, she smoothed the dressing, but her hands lingered even at the completion of this. She moved to face him, staring down at him, uncertain what she was to do next. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, slid down several inches and then dropped. He caught it, kissed it and released it. A moment more and he stood. She had changed her gown some time ago for one more practical to her many errands and activities, a simple day dress, fresh and bright, but hardly suitable for sleep. Or...

He cleared his throat. “Do you mean to sleep as you are, my dear?”

“No, of course not,” she said and returned to her own room.

Archer laid down upon the bed and waited. It was several minutes before she returned, wearing her own dressing gown this time and with her hair let down and free of pins or plaits. He’d never seen her this way, looking both helpless and a little wild, both lost and eager. He struggled to calm, or at least mask, the stirring within him.

At last she sat herself at the foot of his bed and began to brush her hair out.

“So what do you see in our future, my darling?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she answered, her eyes on her task.

“No more ill humours? No more misunderstandings?”

“No. That is, I certainly hope not.”

“No more fear?”

“No,” she said, more quietly.

“No more doubt?”

“No,” she said, quieter still.

“None?”

“Not in you.” She put down her brush to look up at him for the first time.

He sat up and leaned towards her. “In yourself?”

She went back to brushing her hair, but he waited for her answer.

“I hope not.”

“You can’t be surer than that?” A familiar reflection of light on her cheek drew him closer to her. “Oh, my beautiful girl,” he said, taking her face in his hands so that she must look at him. “If you could only see yourself for what you are. If you could see yourself the way I see you.”

She shook her head in dismissal of this.

“Do you refuse even still to be happy?”

“No,” she said. “But–”

“But?”

“I– I don’t know what to do.”

His heart missed and thudded. His blood pounded so that he could hardly hear her softly spoken words. “Yes, you do.”

He kissed her. Then kissed her again. Again and again. The brush dropped from her hand and she leaned into him, both receiving and returning the full measure of what he offered. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, covering her. Covering him. He savoured the feeling of her over every inch of him. Kissing her, loving her still, he carefully brought her to lie down at his side, where they lay, breathing heavily, hearts pounding. He swept her hair away from her face and looked at her. Great day, she was beautiful! Beautiful and his. Or very nearly so. There was still some remnant of reservation. He understood it, but he would overcome it. Yet patiently he waited. Her ordeal was not quite over. These were her obstacles to overcome and he would not push her on more quickly than she was ready, though he himself was fit to burst with longing.