Of Moths and Butterflies (74 page)

They lay, quiet and still. Watching and waiting. He took her hand in his, and she seemed quite suddenly to awaken.

“I was thinking,” she said, but then just as suddenly fell quiet once more.

“Yes, my love?”

She took a great breath and began again. “Do you remember when we were talking before, and you said you could not give me back what Sir Edmund took?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what I said then?”

“You said that I was right. That I could not.”

“And then?”

“You said I might give you back what they took.”

“And you said you did not understand.”

“No.”

“Do you not still?”

He cleared his throat and did not answer.

“I was thinking,” she said again and stopped as the tears came afresh.

Archer wiped them away. “What were you thinking, my love?”

“If you were to take it all back...”

His look expressed his confusion. He thought he understood, but he wanted her to say it. If she would.

“You might undo it. Make it yours.” She blinked, sending another tear running down to balance at the bridge of her nose before it quivered and dropped upon the back of his hand as it held hers.

Her voice was quiet as she went on, barely above a whisper. “The vile and leering looks. The stolen kisses. The touch of grasping and selfish hands. Replace it all. Everything. Take it back. Make it yours. Make me yours.” She took a great shuddering breath. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you?”

“Tell me when.”

She made no verbal attempt to reply, but deeming from her steady and determined gaze her answer, he released her hand, which she carefully touched to his bared chest. And with his own, he stroked her face, felt the outline of her jaw, brushed her lips with his thumb before drawing his hand back up to trace the lines of her neck, down to her collarbone and drawing his fingers lightly against her fair skin. She took in another breath, steadier now, and released it. He drew open the ties of her dressing gown and laid his hand against her waist, as he had done before, taking in the warmth of her beneath her linen chemise. Still looking at him, she took that hand and placed it over her breast. Where it lingered, rising and falling with her breathing, her heart pounding madly beneath it.

He kissed her then, kissed her well and truly, heart and soul, with everything that was in him. He gave her all and took what she gave him in return, and with it taught her what she had never known, that an act so violent, so selfish and demeaning could be, in another time and place, beautiful and divine. Sacred and saving. She had made this request of him, and so he sought to fulfil it. Slowly, carefully, very tenderly, he made himself acquainted with every inch of her, and made every inch his own.

And when, an hour later, perhaps more, she lay beside him breathless and quivering, he held her as she clung to him. Completely she had given herself, heart, soul and body. And while he may have earned the honour of this night, it would take a lifetime of labour to remain worthy of the gift she had fought so hard to give him. Hope, the frailest of all creatures, would reside with them so long as he strove to make a home for it. And he, ever a moth to her flame, she was at last a butterfly, free to love and live to the full measure of her soul’s capacity. As she deserved to do.

As all deserve to do.

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From

—London—

A
BBIE STARTED AWAKE as a scream split the air. She dressed as quickly as she could and made her way to the room above her own. All was tense stillness there.

Mariana sat beside the bed, tending the young woman who lay still and spent upon it.

“Let me help, Mariana. You need some rest.”

Mariana looked up, tears sliding down her cheeks. “It is over, Abbie.”

“Over?” She looked at the young woman again, bloodied, still and pale. A wave of dread spread over her. “Is she…?”

“She lives. But the child…”

“What of the child?” She feared, yet knew, the answer already. “What of the child?” she asked again, this time of the doctor who had been in attendance.

He looked at her, but shook his head solemnly.

Abbie looked next to her aunt. In the haze of her waking, and the headache that lingered still from the day before, she had failed to notice that her aunt held something in her arms. An infant. Blue and lifeless.

She felt suddenly weak. The room was unbearably warm and close. The guttering jets made her head pound all the more in the pulsing light. She left the room, and as quickly as she could, made her way down the corridor and then down two flights of stairs. And she did not stop until she was standing outside. She needed air. She needed to be away. But there was no escaping her aunt’s house. This, now her parents were gone, was her home, and she must find—or make—a place within it.

In the distance she heard the cry of a peacock. Was there a park so near? The fog cleared to reveal a cab driving by. It did not pass, however, but stopped before the house adjacent, where Mr. Meredith, her aunt’s lawyer, lived and kept offices. One of his clients, perhaps.

The gentleman alit from his cab and approached the lawyer’s gate, where he examined the placard very carefully. Finding it not to be the one he wanted, he turned toward her aunt’s house. As he came closer, she saw that the look on his face betrayed how little he enjoyed his mission. He stopped at the gate, while she remained half hidden by the overgrown boxwoods.

Aunt Newhaven’s door bore no number, and so he stared for a moment, as if willing it to give up its secret. Of course it would not. He heaved a frustrated sigh and stood back to examine the façade.

It was then he saw her. His look of irritation, of disapproval even, changed to one of surprise, and then into something else entirely. He appeared to be suddenly, and quite sincerely, concerned.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked her.

Confused in her near delirium, and by the unexpected appearance of a stranger, she had no answer to offer him.

“Is there some way I can help you?”

Could he take her away from here? Could he take her from London and return her to the home she had left, hardly a month ago, on a sprawling estate in Hampshire? She shook her head in answer, both to his question, and to her own. “You are looking for someone?” she asked him instead.

“I— Yes. Possibly.”

“You’re unsure?”

He smiled with grey-blue eyes. He was very handsome when he smiled, and he looked, if possible, vaguely familiar, though there was certainly no reason he should. “I think I must have the wrong address. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I doubt it. I–” But how explain her circumstances? She lived here but was a stranger to the neighborhood. She resided with her aunt, and with her sister. And with… Oh why had she come outside!

“Miss Gray?” It was Mr. Meredith’s voice. He was just emerging from his house, and was now approaching. “What are you doing standing here in– Good day, sir. Can I help you? Are you acquainted with this woman?”

Mr. Meredith’s speech seemed to have a curious effect on the stranger, the look of concern faded. The look of irritation, of disapproval, returned.

“Not at all,” he said, rather too emphatically, and gracing her with an actually disapproving glance, as if that, after all, had been his purpose all along, he turned to walk away.

“You will at least tell me your name, sir,” Mr. Meredith called after him.

He received no reply and so followed, but the stranger was in his cab and pulling from the curb before the lawyer could catch up to him.

“Arabella!” The aunt now. “What on earth do you think you are doing? Come inside this instant!”

And while her aunt scolded, and Mariana attempted to steady Abbie’s shaking hands in her own, and as Mr. Meredith returned with more questions—“Do you know that man?” “What did he want?” “Did you get his name?”, “Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”—Abbie felt her strength drain from her. Her vision began to blur and dim. The walls tilted and began to crush down upon her. The floor rose up to meet her.

She met it half way.

*   *   *

“Y
OU SAID YOU saw her?”

“I did.”

“With your own eyes?”

“How else?”

James Crawford whistled and sat back in his chair before the fire. They had met today, at their London club, where they could share a drink and a cigar and discuss the recent news from home. There had certainly been a lot of it of late.

The brothers were not so close as their proximity in age might have suggested. As boys they had been the best of friends, but as young men they’d begun to grow tired of each other’s company. David, always serious and rather intense at times, did not find much to admire in his younger brother’s more flippant and irreverent manner. They had little in common, indeed, save for their opinion of their elder brother and his recent matrimonial pursuits.

“It was a week ago you saw her?” James asked. “Why didn’t you mention it?”

“It didn’t matter then.”

“And she is…?”

“Finish your sentence, if you will,” David answered, and contemplated his brother’s somewhat rakish appearance. He looked tired. As though he’d been out all night—again. He was in need of a haircut and a shave.

“She is…” James shook his head impatiently, “. . . as common as we supposed her?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“No it isn’t. Say it. She is common tenant riff-raff, a wanton opportunist and a mercenary grasper.”

“I couldn’t possibly tell all that simply by looking at her.”

“Then what did she look like?”

David turned the glass in his hand methodically.

“Good heaven! Don’t tell me she’s a stunner?”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t need to.” James looked at him, and then laughed. “David Ransom Crawford, are you that soft?”

“Well, you don’t think Ruskin would be moony over a plain faced waif, do you?”

James took in a deep breath and released it with his answer. “I suppose not… But as you say, it doesn’t really matter, as she’s not to come after all.”

“Oh, but she is. In fact she’s to arrive within the week.”

“Good lord! You can’t be serious?” James sat up and examined David more carefully. “You are, aren’t you!”

David offered no reply, only took a sip from his glass and laid it down again with that concentrated calm he always possessed no matter how trying the situation. It certainly helped him when he was working with the facts and figures that were his current method of employment. It was a great boon to him in knowing when to buy and how long to hold onto the shares he invested in on behalf of his father and the estate. It did not always serve him so well where James was concerned.

“So she’s changed her mind, has she?” James asked now. “I ought to have supposed she would.”

“It does seem so.”

“How was it she was to come in the first place? I still can’t quite understand it.”

“I’m not sure there
is
any understanding it, really. Not while we’re both from home, at any rate. You knew, of course, that her father recently died.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry to hear it. I rather liked the fellow.”

“Did you?” David asked, a little surprised.

“He was a good man. Knew his place, you know. Not like his confounded daughters. I had occasion to talk to him back when I was the one assisting our father on the estate. Before
Ruskin
came home to take charge of things.” James took a resentful puff of his cigar and nodded at a passing acquaintance. “So Mr. Gray passed on, God rest his soul and all that, but what has it to do with the girl?”

“Well, they were alone then, the sisters, and in need. Our father took it upon himself to help them, and to make Ruskin acquainted with their trials.”

“He was successful there, wasn’t he! Once again, Ruskin’s spied something he wants and so he’s decided he must have it. Our father can’t truly have meant to encourage him to consider our late overseer’s daughter as a candidate for marriage. It’s absurd!”

“I think he meant to engage him, through her, in the tenants’ plight, and from there with that of the workers. To make him see that things were in a bad way and could not remain so. It’s impossible he could approve of Ruskin’s attachment to her, and yet…”

“He makes no objection,” James finished for him. “As if he cannot see where it must lead, he invites her to live with us. What
can
our father be thinking?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” David answered.

 “And it’s Just the one now, is it?”

“Just the one.”

“Well, she can’t stay, and that’s a fact,” James declared and stubbed out his cigar.

“And what do
you
mean to do about it?” David’s question was a rhetorical one, but a rather wicked look was playing upon James’ face. “What are you thinking?”

“You don’t want to handle it, I take it? You have your work to keep you in Town?”

“Yes, I have. And no, I most certainly do not want to
handle
it, as you say.”

“You’ll trust me to do it, then?”

David laughed. “I trust you can find a way to mitigate the risks posed by our parents’ newest project, but do I trust you to do it without causing further trouble? Of that I’m not so certain.”

James merely answered with another narrow and too cunning look.

“Do take care, will you?” David admonished him. “If you want to discourage her from staying, or even from coming at all, that’s one thing. Just promise me you won’t do anything to cause her any real harm. I think her life has been difficult enough without your meddling.”

James, with a frustrated breath of air, arose and threw his coat on. “You c
an
trust me, you know. I’ll soon have it all under control. You’ll see.”

But David was not certain he did see. There was nothing more to say on the subject, however, and his brother, draining off his glass, set it down with a parting nod and turned from him.

“Have I told you that you smell of cheap perfume?” David called after him.

“And watered brandy, yes,” James answered. “Twice today.” And the door closed between them.

David finished his drink and set it back down. He studied the empty glass, recalled the events of that day, not more than a week ago, when, out of curiosity, he had paid a visit to an unnumbered house in a quiet London borough. The signet ring he wore on his right little finger clicked against the polished wood of the chair’s arm as he considered what he had seen there; a young woman, hauntingly beautiful, plainly distraught and looking altogether lost. The spell she had cast had mercifully been broken, but he understood now how easily his eldest brother had been ensnared. Well, James would know how to deal with that problem. David rubbed at his brow, for the thought, as much as he wished it to, did not give him much comfort. Pray God he would not have to clean up James’ mess, too.

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