Of Moths and Butterflies
Table of Contents
What others are saying
Part one
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter twenty-nine
Chapter thirty
Chapter thirty-one
Chapter thirty-two
Chapter thirty-three
Chapter thirty-four
Part two
Chapter thirty-five
Chapter thirty-six
Chapter thirty-seven
Chapter thirty-eight
Chapter thirty-nine
Chapter forty
Chapter forty-one
Chapter forty-two
Chapter forty-three
Chapter forty-four
Chapter forty-five
Chapter forty-six
Chapter forty-seven
Chapter forty-eight
Chapter forty-nine
Chapter fifty
Chapter fifty-one
Chapter fifty-two
Chapter fifty-three
Chapter fifty-four
Chapter fifty-five
Chapter fifty-six
Chapter fifty-seven
Chapter fifty-eight
Chapter fifty-nine
Chapter sixty
Chapter sixty-one
Chapter sixty-two
Chapter sixty-three
Chapter sixty-four
Chapter sixty-five
Chapter sixty-six
Chapter sixty-seven
Chapter sixty-eight
Chapter sixty-nine
Chapter seventy
Chapter seventy-one
Chapter seventy-two
Chapter seventy-three
Chapter seventy-four
Chapter seventy-five
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright info
What others are saying
about
Of Moths & Butterflies
“A lovely, haunting story. The first paragraph drew me in and I could not stop. The author’s writing is superb, like a river flowing through a beautiful landscape that is sometimes light, sometimes dark and threatening. A gorgeous book!”
Susanne O’Leary, author of A Woman’s Place
~
“V.R. Christensen’s work reminds one of literature from the turn of the century, when masterful writers gave their characters emotional gestures and restrained dialogue. A tremendous accomplishment for a contemporary writer.”
Janie Bill, author
~
“What really makes this work is the author’s understanding of social attitudes in the 19th century. An enjoyable read!”
N. Gemini Sasson, author of Isabeau: A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer
~
“Poor Imogen, cursed with money. All the things that money does to a family, the paradoxes of having and not having, of how money ruins the best of intentions, and the author combines all this with writing of the highest quality.”
Jeff Blackmer, author of Draegnstoen and Highland King
~
“What scandalous mystery, what delicately hinted corruption wrought behind closed doors! The dialogue flows effortlessly, drawing the reader into the times. Of Moths and Butterflies is masterful for its genre!”
Hawaiibased mystery author, Toby Neal
Author of
Cry of the Peacock and Gods and Monsters
For information about these and other works please visit www.vrchristensen.com
Captive Press Publishing
Copyright 2011 by V.R. Christensen
Kindle Edition
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
Cover design by V.R. Christensen and Captive Press. Please contact either party for copyright info, or see the copyright info page at the end of this book. Interior book layout formatting by V.R. Christensen and Captive Press. Illustrations by B. Lloyd. For more information about her, visit her website or see the About the Artist page. For all other citations regarding quotations and images used in the creation of this book, please see the copyright info page.
Table of Contents
Front Matter
Words in praise of Of Moths and Butterflies
Title page
Copyright page
Part one
Chapter One - Some terrible news
Chapter Two - Imogen makes a decision
Chapter Three - The runaway
Chapter Four - Gina Shaw
Chapter Five - Maid of all work
Chapter Six - Death notice
Chapter Seven - Worship
Chapter Eight - An introduction, of sorts
Chapter Nine - Miles Wyndham
Chapter Ten - A compromising situation
Chapter Eleven - The mural
Chapter Twelve - Circuses and insects
Chapter Thirteen - Overheard
Chapter Fourteen - Found?
Chapter Fifteen - Friends in unexpected places
Chapter Sixteen - A confession
Chapter Seventeen - Change of plans
Chapter Eighteen - Psyche
Chapter Nineteen - An insect collection
Chapter Twenty - The Blue Morpho
Chapter Twenty- one - Found!
Chapter Twenty-two - Returned to London
Chapter Twenty-three - Society
Chapter Twenty-four - Common acquaintances
Chapter Twenty-five - An interview
Chapter Twenty-six - A proposal of marriage
Chapter Twenty-seven - Weakness
Chapter Twenty-eight - Arrangements
Chapter Twenty-nine - Remorse
Chapter Thirty - A request
Chapter Thirty-one - Announcements
Chapter Thirty-two - Rebuked
Chapter Thirty-three - Marriage morning
Chapter Thirty-four - Vows
Part two
Chapter Thirty-five - The mistress of Wrencross Abbey
Chapter Thirty-six - Occupation
Chapter Thirty-seven - An accident
Chapter Thirty-eight - Promises
Chapter Thirty-nine - Demands
Chapter Forty - Counsel and a warning
Chapter Forty-one - A cottage scene
Chapter Forty-two - Responsibilities
Chapter Forty-three - Discoveries
Chapter Forty-four - Interrupted
Chapter Forty-five - Nightmares
Chapter Forty-six - Guests expected and unexpected.
Chapter Forty-seven - Imogen states her objections
Chapter Forty-eight - More counsel
Chapter Forty-nine - Incompatible
Chapter Fifty - Mrs. Barton advises
Chapter Fifty-one - Preparations
Chapter Fifty-two - An intruder
Chapter Fifty-three - The soli
citor
Chapter Fifty-four - Mrs. Montegue
Chapter Fifty-five - Tried and tested
Chapter Fifty-six - In Ethne’s room
Chapter Fifty-seven - Home
Chapter Fifty-eight - Truly stated
Chapter Fifty-nine - Family gatherings
Chapter Sixty - Precautions
Chapter Sixty-one - Rivalry
Chapter Sixty-two - An agreement
Chapter Sixty-three - Solace found
Chapter Sixty-four - An evening’s amusements
Chapter Sixty-five - An uninvited guest
Chapter Sixty-six - A grim scene
Chapter Sixty-seven - Archer makes a decision
Chapter Sixty-eight - Conflagration
Chapter Sixty-nine - Injuries
Chapter Seventy - The truth
Chapter Seventy-one - Sacrifice
Chapter Seventy-two - Presumption
Chapter Seventy-three - Set free
Chapter Seventy-four - Captured
Chapter Seventy-five - Endings and beginnings
Illustrations
Illustration one - Frontispiece one, or Imogen contrite
Illustration two - From his portfolio he withdrew several documents
Illustration three - He placed himself beside the churchyard gate
Illustration four - She was seated on the floor
Illustration five - She returned to the Abbey
Illustration six - Aren’t you the fine gentleman this evening
Illustration seven - She gazed upon the insect-strewn walls
Illustration eight - The more the room filled, the more alone she felt
Illustration nine - The enlightenment she sought was not to be had
Illustration ten - He waited for her answer
Illustration eleven - Frontispiece two
Illustration twelve - Not too young to understand
Illustration thirteen - A chill came over her
Illustration fourteen - And you play, too
Illustration fifteen - Her behaviour seemed to auger some dark association
Illustration sixteen - There was a chance, albeit a small one
Illustration seventeen - They were to the second landing when the whispering began
Illustration eighteen - She began gathering up the broken glass
Illustration nineteen - She was standing at the mirror when she heard the knock
Illustration twenty - Not sleeping, no
Illustration twenty-one - She opened the window
Illustration twenty-two - They made their way home
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Part one
People have very little idea how great are the injuries which imprudence draws on them, or they would not despise this homely virtue. Especially for young women is prudence required in the conduct of love affairs. There is no end to the tale of misery we could tell resulting from its want. Marriage would not be the lottery it is, if girls would exercise a little prudence. They should never engage themselves to a man of whom they know nothing—the past of their future husband ought to be clear to them.
Laura. Valentine, The Young Woman's Book
Chapter one
October 1881
ITH EACH CREAK in the floorboards above, Imogen’s nerves tensed. She wanted to sleep, needed to. The fire in the parlour had gone out, but it wasn’t a particularly cold night, and the warm glare of firelight seemed too harsh an interruption to the soothing darkness.
Again, the footsteps overhead. The doctor had been upstairs for hours now and this late night vigil did not bode well. If the man should die, she might at last have the liberty she’d so long desired. But where would she go? How would she live? Yet there were concerns more immediately pressing. The shameful circumstances of her life here, the events which had led up to the tragic finale of the evening, these secrets must come to light. Perhaps the doctor was hearing of them now.
It had not been her intention to hurt him. She had only meant to stand up to her uncle. She had reached her limit and she could take no more. She wanted the torment to end, the daily battle to hold onto the last vestiges of self-respect that still remained to her. But now she sat in this limbo between freedom and ruin. If he lived, could she leave him? If he died could she stay? Her conflicting and tumultuous emotions betrayed themselves only in her occupation of busily fingering the fringe of her paisley shawl. Out of date, it was her mother’s and she wore it often. She wore it for comfort.
A knock at the parlour door startled her from her meditations. Mary entered, followed closely by the doctor. He paused a moment before crossing the threshold, his frame a black silhouette against the lights that burned in the hall.
Imogen sat up, pulling her shawl more tightly around her.
“Your uncle requests his solicitor, Miss Everard.”
Silently she nodded and arose. She crossed to the writing desk, where she sat down to compose the line or two required. She blotted and sealed the message, then gave the direction for its delivery.
The doctor returned to his patient, leaving her once more to her dark thoughts, interrupted only by the creaks and groans of a centuries-old house and by the hall clock as it marked off, second by agonising second, the passing of time. And of one man’s life.
It was not an hour later when she heard the doorbell ring, followed by the sound of voices. The doctor and the lawyer held a brief and hushed conference before climbing the flight of stairs to her uncle’s rooms. What secrets were being relayed in those indistinct and earnestly offered words? How many more must know before this would all be over? Would it ever be over? She closed her eyes upon the unanswerable question. And waited.
* * *
A pale autumn sun was just beginning to rise when the gentlemen returned downstairs with the news. The doctor spoke kindly before taking his leave, offering his heartfelt condolences and advising Imogen to get some much needed rest.
The lawyer remained.
A man of imposing stature and stern demeanour, Mr. Watts might be called intimidating by some. For many years he had been in her uncle’s service, and in that time he had become Mr. Everard’s confidant. Perhaps not a friend, but an advisor and a bearer of his secrets—and now, presumably, of her own as well.
“You have aunts,” he began without preface.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll go to them. They’ll take you.” It was as much a question as a statement.
“Yes, of course. But–” She hesitated to say more.
“You don’t wish to go?”
She averted her gaze, unable to answer.
“Have you alternatives?”
“No, sir, not that I can see.”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair. “You have a cousin. One in particular, I think. Your aunt’s nephew by marriage. Is that not a possibility?”
For a woman in her position, alone, without resources, with hardly a character to speak of, marriage was the only conceivable choice. Still… “I’m not sure it is, sir. Not just at present.”
Another long silence followed as he examined her carefully. At last he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope.
“If you’ll be so good as to examine this, Miss Everard,” he said. “I’ll return in a few hours’ time. We can discuss matters in further detail then.”
Imogen looked at the letter but did not take it from him. Patiently, he laid it on the table before rising to gather up his coat and hat.
“I’ll show myself out,” he said.
Imogen saw him as far as the drawing room door, where he turned once more to speak.
“I’ve already sent word to the family. You can leave the formalities to me.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered, relieved to know that these burdens, particularly that of informing her aunts of their brother’s death, would not be hers.
“Get some rest if you can,” he said, and turning, shook his head before shutti
ng the door behind him.
Rest? There was no rest to be had here. Not with her uncle lying upstairs. Not with the family coming any hour now.
The sight of the letter still lying on the table reminded her that she had an obligation to read it. She took it up but could hardly bring herself to break the seal. She placed herself in one corner of the sofa and smoothed the document across her lap. And read. Yet it took some doing to convince herself that the words she saw were the words that had truly been written.
So he had thought of her, after all. Ten years under his roof and now he regretted. Now he wished to do something for her. In disbelief she stared into the newly resurrected flames. If only they could offer some answer as to what she ought to do.
“You look an absolute wreck, Imogen.”
She awoke to the sound of the familiar voice and, seeing him, arose to greet her cousin. Roger placed a kiss on each cheek and stood back to look her over more studiously. Tears had gathered by now. She felt the prick of them, but would not allow them to spill over.
“Are you really so very sorry?”
“I’m not inhuman, after all. He raised me, provided for me since...”
Roger reached out to her, but she drew away and returned to her place on the sofa.
“They’re here, then?” she asked him. “My aunts have come?”
He sighed in frustration. “I came ahead of them.”
“I’m so glad,” she said with a look of honest relief. “Yours is the only face I can bear to look at just now.”
He smiled and his manner relaxed once more. “I was uncertain whether I should come, you know.”
“Why should that be?”
“Well,” he paused and looked at her pointedly. “You’ve been rather unpredictable of late.”
“Have I?” she asked and looked away.
“Well, yes, if you want to know.”
She knew it was true. Since the day, nearly three months ago, when she had quite suddenly come to realise the nature of her value to her uncle, and to the gentlemen who came to borrow money from him, she had begun to see the world in a very different light. She understood now what dangers lurked behind the seemingly innocent smiles and glances offered between a man and a woman, the friendly touch of a hand on her arm. How quickly these turn into something more, crossing the lines of propriety when no obstacles are set in place to check them. To such things, her uncle had turned a blind eye. If it meant keeping business then who was he to deny a man some little reward for his trouble?