Of Moths and Butterflies (13 page)

She cast upon him a disappointed look as she detached herself from him and entered the room. She stopped short and looked about her, turning round and round as she took in every detail, the ceiling, the newly painted mouldings and plasterwork, the walls freshly papered in embossed cameo medallions, the draperies a rich mocha, the sheer bed curtains with a damask overlay.

“Good heaven!” she said at last. “Sir Edmund didn’t direct this.”

“No,” Archer answered.

“He hired someone, then?”

His answer was necessarily cautious, for he suspected the woman in question was in the next room. He had not seen her, but this was where his uncle had determined to keep her. Away from him and all others who might be tempted by the distraction her presence afforded. “In a matter of speaking.”

“With what money, is what I’d like to know?”

“Mrs. Barton’s I suppose. I’m sure the costs didn’t run what they appear to.”

“No? He had one of the servants see to it then, did he?”

He glanced toward the adjoining room. Nothing could be seen or heard from within. “Something like that.”

Claire turned to face him, uncomprehending. “Mrs. Hartup, I suppose,” she said, her doubt quite apparent. “Or your Becky Winslow, maybe.”

“She is not
my
Becky Winslow, Claire. I beg you not to say such things.”

Claire shook her head and sighed. “So Sir Edmund has at last decided to take a wife, has he?”

“Or so he says.”

“And this is to be her room?
Mrs.
Barton,” she added with an air of disdain. “His marrying her can only be a financial arrangement. They say you have recently begun playing escort yourself. Do you understand the risks you take?”

“They, Claire? Your circle and mine are not the same.”

“But they might be, Archer. That’s the point. There are those more than happy to help you. Myself included. But you cannot take him with you.”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice, is it? He commands. I obey. That is that.”

Which won from Claire a sideways glance before she turned her attention once more to the room. She ran her hand appreciatively across one of the drapery panels.

“You don’t suppose I enjoy escorting my uncle’s mistress to functions at which she is only reluctantly received?”

Claire turned to face him. “No. No, I don’t suppose you do. But don’t you see that you must separate yourself from him? You must make your own way.”

Archer turned from her and, placing his hands in his pockets, began to take his own turn of the room.

“You must take this seriously, do you not see? If you don’t do it now, it may very soon be too late. If he makes good on his promise to arrange your marriage, there’ll be no separating yourself from him then.”

“It’s not as easy as you propose, Claire. I’m utterly dependent on him. I owe him everything.”

“But that’s not all. That’s part of it, I see that. You’re afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“You’re afraid to turn your back on the one person whose respect and appreciation, even love, you’ve really wanted. He’s given you everything but that, and that’s what you want. It’s what you’re waiting for yet. Am I wrong?”

Archer did not answer. He did not dare to. It was hardly a discussion he would like to continue. Nor was it one he would like to have overheard.

“You are holding onto some vain hope that he will one day appreciate you for the man you’ve become,” Claire continued.

“I don’t know quite what that is yet, Claire.”

“Neither do I, to be quite honest with you. You are one minute a saint, a Galahad, someone’s knight in shining armour. The next you are nothing but a spoiled child.”

“That’s not very complimentary.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. What do you propose to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“So you propose to do nothing, then? Just stay here, reliant on your meagre allowance and hoping that something will be left by the time you inherit?”

She seemed almost angry, and he couldn’t understand it.

“Well?”

“Blood and money, Claire,” he said at last, frustration thick in his voice. “One doesn’t just cast these aside. As for my uncle’s approval, I have not yet counted myself beyond the earning of it, as you seem to have done.”

But Claire was no longer listening she was staring toward the passageway of the room beyond. He had seen it too. A flash of pale gown across a doorframe, interrupting the backdrop of a not quite empty room. Claire glanced at Archer and crossed to the adjoining door.

*   *   *

Imogen turned upon finding her solace disturbed. It was not much of a solace anyway with her nerves growing increasingly tense in anticipation of Miss Claire Montegue’s imminent arrival. The woman stood before her now as if she meant to stare her quite out of countenance. And what Miss Claire did not deign to do for herself, Mr. Hamilton threatened to finish.

She did not dare speak, simply stood in silence and hoping she was unobtrusive enough to avoid Miss Claire’s censure.

Claire looked to Archer.

“Claire,” he said on cue, “this is Gina Shaw.”

“Claire Montegue,” Claire said for herself, stepping forward and taking Imogen’s hand.

Imogen was hesitant to give her own, though it was for no want of civility. Rather for being treated with such unexpected and undue respect.

“You have done this?” Claire said, gesturing toward the other room.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this room is next, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. And then the one beyond.”

Claire moved to the doorway and peeked within the newly emptied chamber.

While Imogen watched Claire, Mr. Hamilton continued to watch her, and she felt her colour rise under the weight of his gaze, though she refused to meet it.

“Sir Edmund’s rooms?” Claire asked of Mr. Hamilton, begging for further confirmation of what she had already been told, and with that same air of doubt in her voice.

“And Mrs. Barton’s.”

“I’ve never before known him to take such pains for anyone. Their affair is long standing, mutually beneficial, but rarely amicable.”

“No,” Mr. Hamilton conceded.

“It won’t improve upon making the arrangement legal and binding.”

“I have no delusions it will.”

Claire straightened, having at last seen all there was to see, and sighed. “This isn’t right.”

“You disapprove?” Imogen asked, deeply disappointed.

“Oh, my dear, no,” Claire said, approaching her and placing a hand on her arm. “That’s not what I mean at all. The transformation is,” she shook her head, “miraculous. But I’m not at all certain of Sir Edmund’s intentions.” She turned once more to Mr. Hamilton. “Are you sure he doesn’t mean to have these rooms prepared for you, Archer?”

Mr. Hamilton stiffened, took Claire by the arm and led her briskly out of the room.

*   *   *

“What was that about?” she asked him when once they entered the little second story book room.

“You needn’t speak so openly in front of the servants, Claire. I know it’s too much to ask you to keep your opinions to yourself, but can you not use a little discretion?”

“The servants? You mean to tell me Miss Shaw is a servant?”

“I thought you understood that,” he said, ruffled still, or perhaps ruffling further. “I did tell you.”

“Yes, I suppose you did. But I still don’t believe it.”

“Well believe it!” The degree of frustration with which he said this could not be ignored, though Claire did not, as yet, understand it.

“A common housemaid?” she asked, confused.

“Not quite common,” he said, his voice thick with some unexpected and seemingly exaggerated emotion. “Not by the typical standard, but yes.”

Claire stood in silence, watching, waiting for it to become clear. Suddenly it did. “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh dear, no. Archer, what are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“I can see that. What are your intentions toward this woman?”

“Claire, for heaven’s sake.”

“Answer the question, Archer.”

He sighed. “I don’t know.’

“You don’t know?”

“Sir Edmund has asked me to keep clear of her, and I have.”

“Have you?”

“Perhaps not at first, but—”

“But what?”

“What can I say? She put me in my place. And I’ve stayed there.”

“Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet,” she said, and fell into a nearby chair. “How did she come to be here?”

“I hardly know. She arrived a couple of months ago, asked for work and it was given her.”

“And from where did she come? Do you know that?”

“London, I believe. I…”

“What is it?” she prompted him.

“I don’t think she’s been long in her present station, Claire. I’d sooner believe she’s fallen royalty than a born and bred serving girl. If you had been with me when I first saw her, I know you’d agree.” And he proceeded to explain the circumstances, though not quite all the details of that first meeting. What he hoped to gain by it, even he could not say, but he trusted to Claire’s perspicacity, and to her strong and oft times liberal opinions, to make the most of it.

HE SITTING ROOM
of the upper suite was at last cleared and prepared for a thorough cleaning. With notebook and sketch pad in hand, Imogen began to put her ideas down on paper. So occupied was she in her task that she did not hear the footsteps approach.

“Are these your plans?” came the pleasant voice.

“Miss Montegue,” Imogen said and stood. “Yes, ma’am. They are.”

Claire examined them a moment. “Whatever Sir Edmund pays you, it isn’t enough, you know.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“Oh, but I mean it,” she said, and seemed really to do so. “You were not overwhelmed by the task? I know what the rooms looked like before, you know. It could not have been easily accomplished.”

“The most difficult part, I think, is knowing that whatever I do it is not likely to meet with approval.”

“Ah,” Claire said with a sympathetic glance. “Never mind that. I have my doubts she’ll ever see them.”

“You believe the rooms will be Mr. Hamilton’s.”

Claire cast a contemplative look on her, and Imogen regretted her boldness.

“Mr. Hamilton has not treated you too impertinently, I hope?”

“No, not at all. That is, not of late. And he was never unkind, only…”

“A little too attentive?”

Imogen’s gaze fell to the floor. “Yes, perhaps.”

“You object, of course.”

“I do. At least… it is not right.”

Claire examined her once more. “As to your question, I’m afraid it’s hard to say,” she said, shifting her gaze toward the window and what lay beyond. “I hope it will not come to some horrid arrangement, but if my cousin does not take the required initiative for himself, it may well come to that.” Claire turned and looked to her again. “I wonder,” she continued, then stopped once more.

“Yes?” Imogen prompted, though something warned her she did not want to hear what Miss Montegue had next to say.

“I wonder what it is that brought you here. I do not have to wonder how you found employment when a hundred others were turned away. I understand him.”

“Your uncle?”

“He’s not my uncle. He is my aunt’s cousin,” she answered proudly. “We’re all cousins, you see. It’s easier that way.” Proud or not, there was nevertheless a heavy dose of sarcasm implied in her words.

Imogen dared an uncomfortable smile.

“He has placed you up here to keep you out of the way. And to discover your talents, I think. I wonder what else you are capable of. You are not, after all, a servant of the common order. It takes no great genius to see that.”

Imogen looked down at her drawings and shifted them slightly. “I don’t know what you can mean.”

“Don’t you?”

“I came here in need of work. That is all. I’m sure many others before me have found themselves in humbled circumstances. Am I not to seek employment simply because I do not appear to be made for it? I must make my way the same as everyone else.”

“But why?” Claire asked. “Why in this way? Why here, as a servant?”

“A woman without family, without connections…”

“Such as yourself?”

“Yes, of course. It is, after all, the only thing for which I can recommend myself, truly.”

Claire turned her attention once more out of doors. Imogen watched, waiting for whatever might come next. Did this woman consider her some kind of threat? Did she, too, fear that Gina Shaw had come only to cause trouble? Would she cast her out to make her way somewhere else? At last Claire turned toward her again.

“I would like a walk, Gina. Would you be so good as to accompany me?”

“Certainly, Miss Montegue.”

“Claire,” she said. “You must and you will call me Claire.”

*   *   *

A quarter of an hour later, the two walked out of the house together, and upon gaining the avenue, Claire slipped her arm into Imogen’s.

“Now, Gina Shaw, I want to know all about you.”

“All about me?” A tremor of alarm was plain in Imogen’s voice, though she tried to sound as composed as her companion.

“Yes. For instance, where were you born? That’s a good enough place to start.”

Imogen winced. So it was going to be an interview. “India,” she answered truthfully.

Claire glanced, a look in her eye of surprise.

“And then?”

“My parents died and I came to England.”

“To live in London.”

“Yes.”

“With?”

“An uncle. Until he, too, died. And then I found myself on my own.”

“With no one at all to claim you?”

Imogen could not and would not answer this.

“And you have been in service then for…?”

“A great many years.” It was at once a lie and the absolute truth, for there had never been a time when she had not been expected to serve her uncle in some way.

Claire seemed not to believe her. Imogen too was aware that not all of her answers were matching up quite seamlessly.

“You must have been very young, indeed.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“How old are you now? Nineteen? Twenty?”

“Yes.”

Claire laughed and the sound comforted her. “Which one?”

“I’m nineteen today. Tomorrow, Saturday, I shall turn twenty.”

“Good heaven! The wonders never cease.”

“I suppose it is a bit of a coincidence. Charlie told me it is Mr. Hamilton’s day as well.”

“You’ve met Charlie?”

“Yes, he’s been helping me.”

“Such a promising boy. I wish something could be done for him. He deserves better.”

“Yes,” Imogen said with greater enthusiasm. “That’s just my feeling. His life will be hard enough, I think. He only needs a little in the way of helpful encouragement. Some practical assistance. If he were to go to a proper school, if he had a patron who would support him, not just financially but…” Imogen stopped as Claire offered her a challenging look, though it might have been of wonder as well. Either way, Imogen had presumed too much. “I speak out of turn. Forgive me. I have yet to learn to keep my thoughts to myself.”

“If you have not learned it yet, Gina Shaw, I doubt you ever shall.”

“I will try. I’m determined to try.”

“You mistake me. A woman who speaks her mind is what is wanted most here. That is not to say it’s most welcome, only…necessary.” She smiled once more, at Imogen first, and then, turning her attention back to the path before them, at nothing at all. “I think… That is, I dare to suppose, that we will soon find ourselves very good friends.”

Imogen, at last at ease, smiled her pleasure in return. They walked on for a little way and were just nearing the village when they were stopped by a gentleman Imogen had seen before but whom she had never before met. His appearance prompted from Claire a look of profound annoyance.

“I’m very sorry,” she whispered to Imogen.

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Claire Montegue! Fancy seeing you here,” the gentleman, pale and tall, said. “Taking the new housemaid out for an airing, are you? She could use it, I dare say, after being shut up in the Abbey for these past many weeks, doing Sir Edmund’s dirty work and preparing for that woman to take residence.”

“Miles Wyndham,” was Claire’s only answer.

“I have not been properly introduced to your friend, Claire,” he said as a very winning smile spread across his face. He was frighteningly handsome. “Would you be so good?”

“It seems you know her well enough, Mr. Wyndham. I think I ought to spare her any further indignity.”

“Well then, if enough is enough, I might address her myself. Gina Shaw,” he said offering an exaggerated bow. “It seems to me a wonder that you have been in residence these many weeks and I have not yet had the pleasure of properly making your acquaintance.”

Claire looked to Gina, a blank expression on her face.

“It’s remarkable,” he said, “don’t you think?”

“Not so remarkable,” Imogen said, seeing at last that she must give some answer. “Not when the fact remains that I should be considered quite beneath your notice, and you so far above mine that no reasonable contrivance can have been arranged that we might become acquainted one with another. It is no more than logical. It is no more than either of us should wish.”

Wyndham looked to Claire, bemusement on his brow. “This is Sir Edmund’s new maid-of-all-work?”

“You will do well to remember it, sir,” Imogen answered before Claire had the chance.

“I think I can be made to forget,” he said, raising the hair on her arms.

“I doubt very much you shall have the occasion.”

Again he turned to Claire. “You have come to celebrate Mr. Hamilton’s birthday, no doubt.”

“Yes,” Claire answered. “It’s good of you to remember it. I will relay to him your good wishes for the day.” And taking Imogen’s arm, she began to move off.

“Well, I might do it myself, you know. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. You are come. I imagine there is to be a dinner at least. Might I presume to beg an invitation?”

Claire, having turned back to answer, offered her reply. “It has been some time since the two of you were on good terms. If ever you were at all. It may indeed be presuming, sir.”

“A quiet
family
gathering then is it?” The question was asked with a degree of resentment Imogen found both puzzling and unsettling.

“If you are not welcome it is no fault of mine.”

“Well, then,” Wyndham returned. “I suppose I shall see you there.” He bowed once more.

“You presume to go where you are not welcome, sir?” Imogen demanded of him, though how she found the courage she could not say.

His gaze flashed from Claire’s face to Imogen’s and softened into something that might have been ingratiating had it come from another. “Do you mean to wound me, Miss Shaw?”

“No, sir, I mean to remind you of your manners. If you are a gentleman, you do not much act like one.”

He laughed and looked away. “Clearly you are in similar danger of forgetting your place, Miss Gina Shaw. Or has Claire offered to raise you from it? Training her as your lady’s maid are you?”

“Perhaps,” Claire said. “It is, however, no business of yours.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It will make things simpler, certainly.”

“How is that?”

“Well, where you are, she will be. It seems the acquaintance is to be improved after all, Miss Shaw,” he said with a bow. “You may count on it.”

Claire suddenly held to Imogen’s arm more snugly, uncomfortably even. “Good day to you, Wyndham,” she said and turned from him.

They walked then, back in the direction of the Abbey, though Mr. Wyndham watched on for some time, even following them that he might keep them in view as long as possible.