Of Moths and Butterflies Read online

  Archer stifled a laugh. “That is an obstacle, indeed! With?”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that,” Barrett said with a sombre shake of his head. “She’s taken a holiday is all—a rather long one—and we don’t know where she is or when she’ll return.”

  “But she will return? You’re sure of it?”

  “By her own design or upon being recovered. But it isn’t much of a compliment to myself, you see.”

  “She knows of your intentions?”

  “Yes. Though it is possible she doubts the sincerity in them.” The furtive look that followed this told Archer he understood it to be his own fault. “So what of you, then? What has persuaded you to make such a rare appearance?”

  “I was sent.”

  “For?”

  Archer wasn’t quite sure how to answer this. There were few, he knew, who would sympathise with his difficulty. That Roger Barrett might, served both as encouragement and warning. He took his chances.

  “From, is more to the point, I think.”

  Roger waited for the explanation.

  “We have a new addition to the staff,” Archer explained.

  “And?”

  “She is, in a word, remarkable.”

  “Dear heaven!” Roger said, and then allowed himself a low, irreverent chuckle. “And what will be the result of that?”

  “I hardly know.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Archer had no answer for this.

  “One does not marry one’s servants, you know.”

  “No,” Archer said and looked away. “I know.”

  “I think you know what you’re about, then.”

  Archer rubbed his chin uncomfortably. He wished he’d said nothing of it. “There are objections, of course.”

  “I’ve no doubt there are. She won’t object though. They rarely do.”

  “In this case, I think you may be wrong.”

  “Well, then. It all depends on how determined you mean to be. A little perseverance in such matters is all that’s required. What choice does she really have, after all?”

  Archer feared, felt in the hollow pit of his stomach, that Barrett was right, and did not know what he would do about it, though he continued to think it over as he returned Mrs. Barton to her house and then made his way to his club—where he did not sleep.

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  She returned to the Abbey.

  Chapter thirteen

  IR EDMUND'S MANNER toward Imogen after Mr. Hamilton’s departure was decidedly harsh and disapproving. Though he had not spoken a word of either the mural or of having been discovered alone in a room with his nephew, he had made it patently clear that she had raised his ire, and she did not know if she could overcome it. She retired that night exhausted and uncertain and praying that another day like this one would not be hers to endure.

  In the morning she awoke, grateful at least for her half day off. Aware she had much to repent of, and much yet to be grateful for, she made her way, once more, in the direction of the church. The feeling of comfort she had felt before, fleeting though it had been, made her wish to repeat the experience. Upon entering however, and taking the pew she had occupied on that former occasion, it occurred to her that she had been somewhat mistaken in the source of that comfort. The thought disturbed her. For it was not the preacher, it was not the building, and it was certainly not the congregation that had suffused her with such encouragement. She realised, to her regret, that in spite of the scriptures and prayers and sermons that had inspired her, it was the companionship she had felt on that day that she missed so much on this one.

  She struggled to cast the thought of him from her mind and, focusing on the parson, found some success. If she had sought distraction, this morning’s sermon could not do otherwise, for the chosen topic was of especial interest to her. It was the metamorphosis of the apostle Paul that the parson chose as his theme. He had once been an enemy to Christianity, murdering and directing the murders of the Lord’s apostles and servants. Paul had been Saul then, but through a miraculous change of heart he had altered his life completely. Indeed, he had become someone entirely new. Saul, forsaking his former ways, became Paul, and under that name laboured for the rest of his life to make up for the wrongs he had committed. Surely if he had accomplished so great a transformation, so might Gina Shaw—given time.

  Perhaps too soon, perhaps not soon enough (for she was feeling herself on the brink of hopeful and repentant tears) the service ended. Anxious to be on her own, to ponder the inspired words spoken, Imogen arose to leave, but a knot of people before the chapel entrance prevented her making the hasty retreat she desired. As she waited for the way to clear, trying hard not to arouse too much attention from her fellow parishioners, she glanced up to see Mr. Hamilton, who had apparently been watching her for some time. He approached, or began to, but was waylaid by another who addressed him in a voice louder than either appropriate or necessary.

  “Have you spoken to Sir Edmund as you promised?” the woman asked him.

  Mr. Hamilton with a glance in Imogen’s direction, answered her. “Not yet, Miss Mason.”

  “And when do you mean to do it?”

  “I don’t know what more you think I can do,” he said, and by his lowered tone seemed desperate to persuade his companion to lower hers as well. “As I’ve told you before, there isn’t much to be done. Perhaps one day.”

  “That’s all I ever hear from you people. ‘Maybe someday,’” she said once again too loudly. “What good is that to me now? What good is that to little Charlie? He deserves better than this, Mr. Hamilton!”

  “I agree, Miss Mason. You know I do.”

  “Do I?” she said with a scoffing laugh. “Why should I, when all I get are empty promises?”

  “I wish there was something more I could do, truly,” Mr. Hamilton said. “But I am helpless.”

  For an instant it looked as though the woman might strike him, and then, restraining herself, she turned and walked away.

  So this was Charlie’s mother. But did that mean…? Could it mean…? She recalled Mr. Brown’s words with regard to the boy. Remembered too all of Sir Edmund’s admonitions and warnings. She ought to have put the pieces together before now. Perhaps she had simply not wanted to. What a fool she was! A stupid, self-deceived and naïve fool!

  At last she found her way clear and made her escape.

  “Miss Shaw,” she heard behind her, and recognised the voice—could recognise it anywhere.

  She walked on but soon heard the crunching of gravel behind her, nearer and nearer.

  “Gina.”

  Without looking up, and refusing him that portion of respect he had failed to deserve, she answered him. “I thought you had gone, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “I came back.”

  Surprised, for she knew he was not wanted, she demanded. “Why?” She dared a glance and found him looking at her so pointedly she immediately understood him. “What do you want of me?”

  “I want to apologise.”

  “For what?” She knew the answer already, but had hoped to sound dismissive, as if none of it mattered. As if she did not care.

  “For the trouble I caused you. I should have taken more care. I was not thinking.”

  “No. No, I don’t think you were.”

  He appeared a trifle struck for a moment, but before he could offer any reply, she continued.

  “It does not matter, Mr. Hamilton. It did not happen. It would be better to pretend none of it happened.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I must. Don’t you see? This will not do,” she said and turned from him.

  He took her arm and stopped her. “Why?”

  Good heaven! Did he really think so little of her that he would follow her, pursue her despite her protestations, almost openly and only a matter of minutes after leaving the woman who had once been his mistress? Perhaps was still? And was, it seemed, the mother of his child?

  “Why? There is no ne
ed to answer that question, sir. The disparity in our stations speaks well enough for itself.” She walked on.

  “Will you stop a minute,” he said.

  She did. But now she was angry, insulted. And disappointed. “Your behaviour is reproachable, sir.”

  He started and straightened.

  “Have you no care for what people think? For what people say?”

  “Not much,” he said very boldly.

  “That woman… That poor woman, she—”

  “Miss Mason?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What you saw,” he said, at last realising, it seemed, the source of her displeasure, “was not what it looked like.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t,” she answered. “But then it never is, is it?”

  “Miss Shaw—”

  “Mr. Hamilton, I am a servant in your uncle’s house. Your attentiveness is most indecent. Now please, do as you have no doubt been bidden and leave me alone.” And with a final, breath of air, she finished, “Please.” Then turned on her heel and walked away.

  Leaving Archer helpless to do other than watch her return to the Abbey. His home. An aching awakened in him he knew he had no right to feel. He was powerless to resist it. To pretend that none of this had ever happened… It was impossible.

  * * *

  Imogen, determined to put past events behind her and to earn Sir Edmund’s respect anew, concentrated all of her effort on the suite of rooms whose improvement had been placed in her care and direction. With her energies so dedicated, her work progressed rapidly. Two weeks later the first room of the west wing suite was nearly complete. The tradesmen had done their work well. The painters had come and gone. The drapers too. And the furnishings, now mended and reupholstered, had only to be placed before she could begin on the other rooms.

  When it was done, she sat before the empty fireplace to appreciate her work. Though the room was cold, for the windows had been opened to allow the fumes to dissipate, it was a comfortable room, nonetheless. All the more so for having Charlie’s company. He remained tonight, later than usual, and had seated himself on the floor before her.

  “It turned out very well, Charlie, if I do say so.”

  “One would hardly think it the same room. I think it’s marvellous.”

  “If only your opinion were the only one that mattered.”

  “Well…” Charlie answered and then hesitated. “Some won’t appreciate it whatever you do.”

  “Mrs. Barton?”

  “The future mistress of Wrencross Abbey, my eye,” he said with a derisive breath of air. Then, crossing his hands behind his head, he stretched himself out on the rug.

  “You truly don’t think she’ll like it?” she asked him.

  “She doesn’t like anything, but it’s of little consequence.”

  “It is of great consequence. If she does not like it, I’m sure it will be blamed upon me.”

  Charlie shook his head as it rested on the floor. “Miss Claire is coming,” he said. “If she approves, and she will, nothing more will be said on the matter.”

  “I hope you’re right, then. Miss Claire? Who is she?”

  Charlie’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “She is Mr. Hamilton’s cousin,” he answered at last.

  “Sir Edmund’s niece?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head once more. “Everyone has a title. Nephew, uncle, cousin. I’m not sure they mean much.”

  “And what is she to you, Charlie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And Mr. Hamilton?”

  His eyes flashed to meet hers. She saw his pained look and regretted the question.

  “I don’t know,” he said again, though more weakly than before.

  Though she knew it wrong of her to press, she must know. “And Sir Edmund?”

  He only shrugged this time.

  “He treats you well?”

  “Oh yes. Well enough, that is. He pays me to do odd things for him. And he’s taught me to read.”

  “That’s no small thing. It will be a great advantage to you, if you will persevere.”

  “Yes, and I’m grateful. But it isn’t always pleasant, you know. He hasn’t much patience, and if I did not want it so much, I think I would have found it very hard going.”

  She wondered that Sir Edmund would take the trouble, but did not dare say such a thing.

  “So Miss Claire is to come, is she?” she asked instead. “And is to inspect my work? When?”

  “Soon, I think. Tomorrow. Perhaps the next day. She comes very rarely.”

  “Is it a special occasion that brings her?”

  “She comes to celebrate Mr. Hamilton’s birthday.”

  “His birthday?” she said, and regretted her too apparent surprise.

  “You weren’t expected to know,” Charlie said in his unbeguiling way and misinterpreting her reaction entirely.

  “No. Of course not, Charlie,” she said, and, wishing to change the subject, she turned it back to the former one. “Miss Claire and Mr. Hamilton are very close, then?”

  “Oh, yes. About as close as they can be.”

  She felt then a slight pang of jealousy. “She’ll be here tomorrow, you say?”

  “Or the next day, yes. She’ll come to see that all is in order before the weekend.”

  “So there is to be a party?”

  “Of sorts, I suppose.”

  “Of sorts?”

  “Sir Edmund doesn’t go in for celebrations. This will be Miss Claire’s doing. It should prove interesting. It usually does.”

  Imogen wasn’t sure this was something to look forward to. At least for her part she’d be kept out of the way. She might take some relief in that.

  Charlie sat up and examined her for a moment. “I think Miss Claire will like you,” he said. “I believe she’ll like you very much.”

  “I’m a little frightened of this Miss Claire, to own the truth.”

  “She is a little frightening,” Charlie conceded with a laugh. “But in the best of ways.”

  Which did little to offer Imogen anything in the way of reassurance.

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  Chapter fourteen

  N THE LONDON townhouse he shared with his aunt, Roger Barrett sat, driven to idleness by the absence of his dearest friend and by the elusiveness of any diversion, worthy or otherwise. Julia too was taciturn this evening. It was not like her, but so far Roger had failed to notice.

  “Is it some illicit pact Parliament has made with the devil that ensures that the weather for an entire six months is nothing but fog and rain? I’ve not seen the sun in weeks.”

  Julia, with her chin resting on her loosely fisted hand, her gaze vainly piercing the fog-filled streets outside, did not answer.

  “It’s abominably cold in here.”

  Still no answer. Nothing.

  “Great day, it must be colder inside than out!”

  At last, and without looking. “Hmm? Did you say something?”

  “Has the fire gone out?” He stood then, to see for himself. “No? Well it could be stoked higher, I dare say.” And he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

  “Ring for Mary, then.”

  Before Roger could quite reach the bell pull, the door opened and Mary entered, stacked the coals higher and left again with a polite curtsey, as Roger watched her with suspicious interest.

  “How do you like that?” he said when the door was closed again.

  “What Muriel ever had to complain of, I can’t imagine,” Julia answered as she turned back to the window. “I think that girl must have been the most faithful of any of my brother’s servants.”

  “Muriel has hardly a kind word for anyone,” Roger returned. “Do you believe her? Mary, I mean. Do you believe she truly has no idea where Imogen has gone?”

  “There’s no telling, really. She is faithful; I have no doubt of that. But I cannot believe she would consider Imogen’s running away to have been in her best in
terest.”

  “Five weeks and not a word! Not a clue!”

  Julia looked to her nephew. “Not quite without a clue.”

  Roger, in three strides, was beside his aunt. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

  Julia examined him a moment. “Do you know Mrs. Emily Barton?”

  “Should I?”

  “No,” she answered pointedly. “You shouldn’t. But she has lately been present at a few of the dinner parties to which Muriel and Lara have been fortunate enough to be invited. I’m not quite sure what her credentials are. She seems to me a rather common character. But you know Society these days. It is not as stationary and predictable as it once was.”

  “For which I, for one, am grateful.”

  Julia laughed. “Yes. And I suppose I should be too. Were it not for your uncle, my dear husband—may God rest his soul—” and she placed her hand tenderly over her heart, as she always did at the mention of him, “I would probably have to work every bit as hard as my sisters do, and simply to maintain myself amidst the lowest of the respectable circles. But for him... Well, we neither of us have to struggle now, do we?”

  “But what news of Imogen? What has this Mrs. Barton to do with her?”

  “She has been asking questions.”

  “Of you?”

  “Of Muriel, mainly. Strange questions, too. Regarding our brother’s servants.”

  “Mary?”

  “That was not the name she mentioned. Shaw, I believe it was. Gina Shaw. You were not aware of anyone by that name?”

  Roger shook his head thoughtfully. “Mr. Everard had so many though, coming and going. No one ever stayed long. But what interest to anyone should your brother’s servants be?”

  “It seems someone from his house has shown up at the home of an acquaintance of hers, begging for a position. And it was shortly after my brother’s death. Within a day or two.”

  Roger could not think what to make of this, but for the fact that something hard and cold had settled in the hollow of his stomach.

  “Have you asked Mary?”

  “No. No, not yet.”

  Roger crossed the room once more in search of the bell pull. And pulled it hard. Mary appeared half a moment later.