Of Moths and Butterflies (39 page)

LAIRE MONTEGUE LIVED
near Southampton, on the very edge of the New Forest, and it was here Archer found himself on the morning following his rather hasty departure from the Abbey. With the knocker in hand, he contemplated the door for a minute or two before at last concluding that the thing must be struck before the door would open to him. The butler granted him his silent permission to enter, and there Archer waited to be received.

“Well, what do you know?” came the voice as Claire’s grandmother found him looking lost and a little worse for wear.

“Mrs. Montegue, how are you?” he said, kissing her upon each of her pale and wrinkled cheeks.

“You’ve come for Claire, of course. She said you would.”

“Did she?”

“And where is your wife? I’m so looking forward to meeting her.”

“I’m afraid she was unable to travel with me.”

Mrs. Montegue’s brow lowered in disapproval. As with Claire, there was no use lying to this woman.

“Come,” she said. “There’s no need to stand here as if we didn’t know how to welcome a guest.”

Archer followed her into the nearest sitting room and, making himself comfortable, prepared to wait.

“You are well, I trust?” Mrs. Montegue asked him, placing herself beside the fire, where she stood, leaning lightly on a walking stick she did not appear to need.

“Tolerably, ma’am,” he answered. It was another lie. He was a wreck and he knew it. What was worse, it showed, and he knew that too.

“And how is my cousin these days? Sir Edmund is well?”

“Well enough, I suppose. I’ll tell him you asked.”

“Will he care?”

“Of course he’ll care.” It was another lie, as transparent as the last. In the silence that descended, in the fog filled confusion, he nearly forgot himself. He could not bear the silence, for it gave him time to think—and Mrs. Montegue time to study him. He’d always been a little afraid of her. Too wise, too perspicacious, she could reduce a man to a child with half a dozen words, and a child to tears with only a look.

“You are well, ma’am?” he asked her.

“As well as any woman of five and seventy who has determined to live another twenty years just to spite her dependents.”

Archer smiled, though the gesture reminded him how happy he was not.

At last and mercifully, Mrs. Montegue left him to discover the whereabouts of her granddaughter. Twenty minutes later, Claire appeared, her face nearly as grim as when he had last seen it.

Archer stood upon her entrance, but sat again when she indicated with an irritated wave of her hand that he should. She offered no word of welcome. Nothing at all.

“You’re not really going to insist on being angry with me, still?”

With her arms folded across her chest she wandered the room in resolute silence.

“Claire. Truly, I am sorry about it all.”

Her eyes darted to meet his for an instant. “Where is she? You’ve brought her with you, of course?”

“No, I’ve come alone.”

Claire turned on him. “You’ve left her there alone?”

“Yes, I—”

“Archer, are you mad?”

“I had to get away.”

“From her?”

“I need your advice.”

She turned to him. “Well of course you do. But you’ve never heeded it before so what difference can it possibly make to you now?”

“Claire, please.”

She resumed her pacing, refolding her arms before her. “You might have written.”

“I had to come myself. I could not take the risk of your refusing me. I haven’t the time to waste.”

“Why? Has she threatened to leave you?”

“Of course not.”

“Some hardship has befallen, from which you cannot extricate yourself?”

“Not exactly.”

“So why have you come?”

“Because you can help me. You said you would. You alone can convince her to trust me. To believe in me.”

She stopped but did not turn to him, and as if she were addressing the rug on which she had so recently been treading a short and destinationless path, she said, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“What?”

“You’ve deemed it too difficult to do on your own, and now you want me to do it for you.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant. I want you to help her. Encourage her, if you can. Keep her company.”

“I’m to be
her
companion now, am I? And what do you propose to pay me for that honour?”

“Claire, please.”

“Do you know why I wished to take her from the Abbey?”

“You were very fond of her, I knew that. And you saw what we all did, that she was not suited to her station, that she ought to be exalted from it.”

“Yes, all those things certainly. But my haste was for the fact that she was not safe there.”

“From me?”

“From you, yes, perhaps. I saw you wanted her and I knew you would do whatever it took to have her. But I did not think you capable of anything low then.”

“Then?”

“I have since changed my mind.”

He was hurt, shocked. And his pain was apparent in his voice, which came less steadily now. “Claire?”

“You married her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Convinced her to believe in you only to let her learn on her own that she was expected to accept you. That she had no choice at all. You have deceived her. How am I to convince her to trust you? How is she ever to trust you? I can’t answer that. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you remove her from those whom you’ve allowed to use her in baser ways than you have so far done. You have not insisted…?”

“I’ve insisted nothing, Claire. I’m not a complete blackguard.”

Claire sighed volubly. “But you have left her alone. Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Tell me why you would leave her for any reason, Archer.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. We exchanged words and–”

“And?”

And he remembered it all: her fear, her hand that had trembled in his, that faint sound of reciprocated longing that had made it all the harder to refuse what she had so unwillingly offered him.

“I had her, Claire. I had her right here.” As if his hands were still framing his wife’s face, he held them before him—then dropped them to his side. “I don’t know what happened. I think she may really hate me now. It has not always been so.”

“No.”

“She had accepted me. She was mine until it became legal and binding.”

“No. Until she became obligated.”

“Yes. Yes, all right.”

“
Then
you made it binding. You took her back to share the home of a man who once employed her. A man who has never treated her kindly. You have asked her to trust you when few have ever proved themselves worthy of that honour. And now you’ve left her to fend for herself. Sir Edmund isn’t the only one capable of making her life uncomfortable, after all. Wyndham is about, is he not?”

Archer glanced up at her in place of an answer.

“You seem determined to fix yourself at every turn.”

“The obstacles are insurmountable. Is that what you are trying to say?”

“The obstacles are indeed formidable. And you’ve placed them there yourself for the most part. Not all of them, I grant you, but a great many.”

“If she only understood—”

“What? That you love her?”

His answer was little more than an exhale. “Yes.”

“But love is not selfish longing, Archer. It is not desire, and it is certainly not possession. It is the overwhelming concern for another’s happiness beyond one’s own. She needs time, and perhaps a great deal of it.”

“I’m not sure I have it.”

“Why?” she demanded of him, angry again. “Why are you always in such a hurry to have things your way?”

Archer turned away and rubbed contemplatively at his temple.

“Go home.”

He looked back at her. “Claire, please.”

“I’ll follow you as soon as I am able, but you have to go home. You should never have left her.”

The look then on Claire’s face confirmed the worst of his fears, those he had determined to ignore. What kind of an idiot was he?

*   *   *

Imogen, after leaving the dinner table the night before, had returned to her room to await her husband’s return. Angry with him for leaving her to defend herself against his uncle’s insolence and his cousin’s enduring presumptuousness, she locked the door between their rooms. Then stood, unable to move. Unable to think. Her eyes remained fixed on the key she had just turned. Did she really wish to lock him out? If he were to come home now, tonight, when she needed him most… Slowly she approached the door and turned the key again. The lock unfastened. The door swung open, one inch then two until the gap was large enough that he could not fail to notice. Having accomplished such a feat of bravery, she sat down to wait for him. And kept waiting, until the dismal, lonesome and frigid night gave way to dismal, lonesome and frigid morning.

It was only when the sun was well and truly up that she realised the futility in her vigil. She had not slept. But there was no rest to be found. She knew it would be better to remain safe in her room, still, she had confined herself to these lonely quarters long enough. It was her house now too, and she had much to do in it, responsibilities she could not overlook. Perhaps one of these she had neglected long enough. And she’d had enough of feeling sorry for herself. Wyndham’s words rang in her ears. Those which had advised her she must do something for her own happiness. Archer, too, had uttered a similar sentiment. He was right. They were both right.

Really, wouldn’t it be much better for her if she were to adopt her life here with some semblance of dignity, holding her head high and commanding respect rather than cowering in her room? With this in mind, she arose, determined to set herself upon the task at the earliest possible hour, before Mrs. Hartup became too busy in her daily chores to afford her a proper audience.

Imogen found the housekeeper without much trouble, in the breakfast room, preparing the buffet.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you, Mrs. Hartup?” Imogen said, rather too timorously to command respect, and the most she effected by this first attempt was a “Humpf!” as the woman went about her business. Imogen, however, was not about to be run over so easily. She stood her ground, and instead of chasing after the housekeeper, she waited for her to return once more from the kitchen. Which she did soon enough. Imogen stood in the way of the sideboard and would not be moved until she had the woman’s full attention.

“Have your say then, if you must,” the housekeeper said, her arms heavily laden with a steaming tray of bacon and sausage.

“I know you don’t care much for me, Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen began. “As a servant under your charge, I’m afraid I was never quite adequate. I realise, too, how difficult it must be to see me return in the manner in which I have. But I’ve never lorded it over you, and I must beg for that consideration at least.”