Of Moths and Butterflies (40 page)

Mrs. Hartup shifted her burden restlessly. No doubt the tray was hot and growing heavier by the minute.

“Perhaps the breech is irreparable. If so I expect you will tell me. But it’s time we were properly staffed again. It is my responsibility to see that it is so, and I cannot do it without the help of a loyal and capable housekeeper. And so, before I go about posting the advertisements, I must know from you if your antipathy extends so far as to make it requisite that I find someone else to fill the position?”

Mrs. Hartup opened her mouth and then shut it again.

“If you think you can overcome your objections, I’d like to ask your help in the matter of the other staffing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup said with what was the nearest to respect Imogen had ever received from her.

“If you’d be so good as to make a list of the positions you require in order for this house to be run as it should, and so too that your job might be made as easy as possible, I’ll add my own to the list and you may organise and manage all at your discretion, but there can be nothing overlooked.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup answered, her manner both hopeful and hesitant.

“And if you wouldn’t mind helping me with the interviews, I’d be most grateful. I don’t know the first thing about providing for a house this large.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m in your debt, Mrs. Hartup.”

With her request made, her peace offering accepted and Mrs. Hartup’s gratitude offered and received, Imogen left the room, and then, retrieving her notebook she made her round of the public rooms to see what was left to be done there. Very little, it seemed. The workers had been assigned to the upper rooms now. The guest rooms were nearly finished and Charlie’s would be next.

Imogen entered the ballroom and examined the newly restored ceiling. It was not a complicated affair, simply a sky of clouds embellished around the edges with cherubs and flowers and a Greek god or two. She realised, for the first time, for she could hardly have made it out before, that it was Venus, commanding Cupid upon some mischievous errand. And with his honey brown curls and his fine complexion, Archer might very well have been the youthful model. The walls too were looking well in a recent coat of palest blue and the draperies, red velvet, lay on the table, only waiting to be installed.

Imogen entered the last of these rooms and closing the doors behind her, stood in that which served as both music room and conservatory. It was a warm day, rare for March, and the sun’s rays fell through the uncovered windows to warm the checkerboard tile. In want of fresh air, she opened one of the doors and stood within the doorway as a light breeze entered, carrying with it the scent of spring blossoms, shrubberies recently pruned and tamed, and once rank grass, carefully clipped. The new gardeners had been hard at work.

She turned upon hearing the flapping and scattering of paper and observed a pile of music as it was lifted by the wind and tossed across the room. She gathered these, and stacked them neatly once more, then examined them as she restored them to their proper order. Among them was one she had learned to play before. One of Beethoven’s sonatas. Slowly, contemplatively, she took it up. Of all the pieces she had learned to play, this had been her favourite. She sat down at the piano and placed the music, staring at it for a long while before at last deciding to begin. Tentatively, she touched her fingers to the keys. Her mistakes were many, she had never learned to play well, but with each chord she struck perfectly, she felt encouraged to continue. And with the sound of the longing melody, its hesitating and passionate metre, she found solace.

But not for long.

“And you play, too.”

She stopped to find Wyndham standing just within the doorway. How long had he been there?

“Not well, mind you, but you do play.”

She stood, knocking the piano stool to the floor.

“Excuse me,” and she turned to leave.

“Stay,” he said, a smile on his lips. But there was a hardened look in his eye. “Continue your playing.”

“I have finished, sir. If you’ll excuse me.”

“I beg,” Wyndham said, and bent to pick up the stool. “To hear music at the Abbey is such an extraordinary novelty, Mrs. Hamilton. I beg you to continue.”

With her hand on the door, she hesitated, looking back at him.

“Say you’re not afraid of me, Mrs. Hamilton.”

She did not trust Mr. Wyndham, but she had no cause to offend him, and actually considered it unwise to take the risk. She released the door’s handle.

“No,” she said. “No, of course not.” And instantly regretted it. “But I think perhaps it is unwise to remain here alone with you while my– While Mr. Hamilton is away. You caused me some trouble yesterday, you know?”

“Did I?” he said, faintly laughing. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I don’t see why that should be. We are family now. Cousins, you and I. I see no reason why we should not be very good friends. Will you?” and he gestured toward the stool he had just replaced.

Again, she hesitated and, perhaps observing this, Wyndham moved away, restoring the proper distance between them. Reluctantly, she returned to the piano and began again, and had played several measures, nearly perfectly, when Wyndham approached once more. She stopped and looked at him.

“Please. Don’t mind me. Continue.”

She stood, and his manner became suddenly hard. “I wish for you to play Miss Sh– Mrs. Hamilton. Do you deny me?”

“I’m no longer a servant to be commanded, Mr. Wyndham. And most certainly not by you. This is my home now, and I beg you to remember it.”

“Ah. Yes. Forgive me,” he said, easing his features into something more congenial. The effect was unnerving—hardly natural.

He approached her once more, and she took a step away from him, but found herself blocked from any further retreat by the stool which stood in her way. Still he continued to advance until he was standing just before her, very nearly beside her. His head lowered to speak into her ear.

“But how did you accomplish it?” he asked. “That is what I want to know.”

She did not answer, nor did she have the opportunity. The door opened and Sir Edmund entered the room.

“Miles,” he said in a warning tone.

“Just offering congratulations to my new cousin,” he said, and, with another dark look from Sir Edmund, he bowed and left them.

Imogen waited for Sir Edmund to have his say. She knew he would not pass up such an opportunity.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”

“No, sir. Not particularly.”

“Not now I’ve interrupted your little tête-a-tête, at any rate.”

She kept her silence, furious that she should be imposed upon by one and subsequently accused by another.

“I suppose I should have known what to expect from such an incorrigible trollop.”

“Perhaps it is unwise to place any too high expectations on someone you hardly know and do not care to consider beyond the immediately beneficial.”

She saw his colour rise. He took a step toward her. Did he mean to strike her? He stopped again just as suddenly.

“Your place, Mrs. Hamilton. Perhaps a reminder is in order, after all.” And with a last, disapproving survey of her, Sir Edmund turned to follow after Wyndham.

And you play, too.

HAT BRINGS YOU back so soon, Miles?” Sir Edmund said, as he entered his room to find Wyndham waiting for him. He crossed to his desk and, standing, began to replace the papers into his portfolio and to gather up the necessary items for the lawyer. “You delivered my message, I take it?”

“Oh, yes.” But Wyndham’s answer was given with a degree of nonchalance that seemed strangely at odds with the hard look on his face.

Sir Edmund straightened and turned to face Wyndham squarely. “And it has been accepted?”

Wyndham remained silent.

“I asked you a question.”

“She won’t be separated from him.”

“Oh won’t she?” Sir Edmund said, tossing the portfolio onto a nearby chair. This was not what he’d expected. Bess Mason was typically one to do anything for a few pounds. He’d given her more than a few this time. “What does she propose to live on, then?”

Again, Wyndham was frustratingly reticent.

Sir Edmund threw himself into his chair. “Do you have an answer for me, Miles? Can you tell me what she intends to do—or you—when I cut her off?”

This did not have the effect Sir Edmund had predicted. Wyndham was suddenly and unmistakeably angry. “I want you to tell me what is really going on here.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“I disagree.”

“At least it’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Wyndham demanded once more. “Are you quite sure? It seems your Mrs. Hamilton has promised to help Bess and the boy. I think that makes it my business.”

Sir Edmund sat up straight. “What?”

“She wants to do something for Charlie. She wants to raise him.”

“Yes,” he answered cautiously. “I know.”

“I don’t mean simply by the arranging of a room for him here at the Abbey. She’s given Bess her word. And she has given her money already, with the promise of more to come. Whatever Bess and the boy might need. But with what money, I’d like to know?”

“Devil take it!”

“She’s reluctant to presume upon the staff, and yet she has no qualms when it comes to promising ready money where there was never any before, no matter how hard I have squeezed or Bess has begged.”

“The devil take it!” Sir Edmund said again.

“It seems Mrs. Hamilton is under the impression she bears some responsibility for Charlie.”

Sir Edmund’s answer was given in an incoherent grumble.

“Is it true? Does she believe Charlie is Hamilton’s?”

“Yes. And it’s causing some unnecessary difficulty between them, for all she seems to dote on the boy.”

“She is willing to accept it?”

“It’s a convenient excuse to avoid her own responsibilities, but yes.”

“Is she daft?”

“I’ve never given the girl much credit in the way of logic.” And he had reasons enough not to do it. She’d played fugitive in order to escape a fortune, after all, had hired herself out as a common maid-of-all-work and had fled a suitable offer of marriage from her cousin, all in the name of wilful independence. “So Bess refuses to send him, does she? After all her complaints that we have not done what we ought to for him, after all we
have
done for him, now she refuses?”

“She does.”

“Well, then,” Sir Edmund said leaning forward upon his desk. “I suppose the question is, what do you intend to do about it?”

“That rather depends. If you intend to set him up as you have done Hamilton, then so be it. He’ll go and I’ll make sure he does. But I don’t see how his going off to some fancy school in London is going to make any difference to your nephew and his wife now. Especially as she’s so fond of the boy. I see no reason why Hamilton and his wife shouldn’t go to the extent of their ability to help him, if that’s what they want to do. And unless I have a good reason to cross Bess in this, I’ll not do it. Coming between a woman and her child is no small matter.”

“I suppose you would know. How many other brats do you have out there, Miles?”

“None. Not that I’ve been made aware of.”

“None that you’ve confessed to. It’s not the same thing. And when you do?”

Miles nodded in Sir Edmund’s direction. “You’ll be the first to know about it.”

“So that I might take up those responsibilities for you as well, I have no doubt.”

“The obligations associated with the word, ‘responsibility’ have always been rather ambiguous in this family to begin with. You know I can’t do more than I have done. If our dear Mrs. H. wants to help the boy, why shouldn’t she be allowed to do it?”

“It isn’t her place, Miles.”

Wyndham’s gaze suddenly became hard. “But it’s somehow yours?”

“What is it to you how I deal with Bess Mason and her brat? I should have thought you’d want him out of your hair as much as I do. You ought to have extricated yourself from that mess by now. You know what’s expected of you, and it seems that whatever I do to try to help you it is never quite enough!”

“What is it to me?” Wyndham said, crossing to the desk and leaning hard upon it. “I’ll tell you what it is to me. For as long as I can remember, you have favoured Hamilton. He’s no different than me, and yet you treat him as though he were some saint. You’ve groomed him to be your heir. He’s your nephew. I’m your—”

“My nephew!”

“Yes, fine. Call it what you want, but Hamilton sits in the lap of luxury, handed everything his heart desires. He lives here, coddled and protected, while I live in a tumbledown house I can barely afford to keep up. He’s been given the best of everything, every opportunity, every privilege. And then, by some twist of absurd fate, he marries the servant girl he once meant to seduce? It’s outrageous! I’d have married Bess. Once. But no. Marriage was not to be thought of when I was dallying with the servants. Had I done it, I’d have been cut off and cast aside. But him… He married his wench and yet here he is. Nothing has changed.”

“Once again, Wyndham, you don’t know what you’re talking about. And under such circumstances, I would advise you to hold your tongue.”

Wyndham stood up straighter. “Explain it then. If I don’t understand, explain it.”

“I don’t need to explain anything. All you need to know is that I mean to have Bess and her boy out of my way, and if you can’t accomplish it, I will. One way or another, Archer’s got to put his marriage on proper ground. So far he’s resisted asserting himself, and with all her time and energies occupied in thinking of further ways to use that boy as a barrier between them, the matter may very well get beyond him. She needs her own child to dote upon. And I want an heir.”

“But you have an– Wait, just a minute.” Wyndham seemed suddenly to have made some profound revelation. “Do you– Do you mean to say he’s not bedded her yet?”

Grateful to avoid the other, more obvious question, Sir Edmund suddenly found himself far less reluctant to answer this one. “That’s precisely what I mean.”

“He’s a greater fool than I thought. What the devil’s he waiting for?”

“Her invitation, I believe.”

“Her what?” Wyndham laughed. “He’s waiting for
her
to invite
him
? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard in my life. He must want her. Is there something wrong with him? He’s not—”

“His desires are not the problem. I’ve told you already what is.”

“Have you?”

“Bess’s boy, Miles. Is there anything at all in that skull of yours? Mrs. Hamilton believes he’s Archer’s. Or wants to. She wants an excuse.”

“Ah,” Wyndham said, as if suddenly comprehending. “The virtuous maiden is reluctant to give up her prize, is she? Well, I can help her there. I can help you both, really. Sometimes a little initiative is all it takes to push a woman in the right direction.”

That was the limit. “Get out of here Wyndham! Get out now! If I see you anywhere near Mrs. Hamilton again, you won’t have a leg to stand on when next you come to me for help. And if Charlie’s not in London by the end of next week, you’ll regret it.”

Slowly Wyndham backed away toward the door and at the last minute turned and went through it, throwing it open and letting it slam behind him.

Sir Edmund remained at his desk for some time, fuming and growing increasingly certain of the futility in it. Count on Wyndham to raise the devil wherever he went. He would have to speak with Archer again—seriously. He must be made to understand just how precarious was his situation. Perhaps how dangerous. Where in
heaven’s
name had his nephew gone? And what was he to do now about Bess and her boy? He had no power over them with Mrs. Hamilton’s promise in her hand. The devil take her and her interfering ways!

Sir Edmund arose from his desk and stepped out into the hall.

“Mrs. Hartup?” he said, stopping her as she was passing by. “Is my nephew home yet?”

“No, sir. Nothing’s been heard of him since he left yesterday.”

“If he returns tonight, I want to speak with him first thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back to his room, but Mrs. Hartup stopped him. “Sir?”

He turned once more.

“I’ve made all the arrangements for the employment of the new staff. Would you like to look over the advertisements before I post them?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Mrs. Hamilton. She asked me this morning to arrange to have the house properly staffed again.”

“Oh, did she now?”

Mrs. Hartup’s tone was tentative. “Yes, sir.”

“What an astounding piece of baggage she has turned out to be.”

“You do not wish for me to place the advertisements then, sir?” Clearly she was disappointed.

Dash it, but she was an interfering bit of baggage!

“No, Mrs. Hartup. Place your ads. The help is needed and has been denied you long enough. And as Mrs. Barton is soon to be joining us, it would be good to show her just how improved we are.”

Apparently puzzled at Sir Edmund’s display of incongruous moods, she bowed and went on her way. Whereupon, he sat himself down once more and considered what he was to do.

*   *   *

Wyndham left Sir Edmund’s rooms in a state of befuddlement. The evening had been a series of revelations, one after another, all of which conspired to leave him utterly at sea. Then, quite suddenly, he had become a man of firm resolution. There were aspects of his life that were complete mysteries to him. And there were others that were plainly understood. Foremost was the fact that Sir Edmund was his father. A fact that had been buried in three decades’ worth of lies. Though Sir Edmund had maintained the avuncular farce, he knew the truth. But his persistence in the lie was about to change. He would be recognised. As Sir Edmund’s son. As the heir to fortune and property. Title be hanged. What good was that to him? It could not, after all, pay his debts or fix the holes in his leaking roof.

Neither was Archer Hamilton deserving of it though, nor of anything Sir Edmund had to leave his dependents. He was merely Sir Edmund’s nephew, and Wyndham’s junior by seven years. He remembered well that tragedy. He remembered Magnus, remembered his death, and how that woman had altered so afterwards. But for all their good intentions, they had not been married. Miles knew it. He had no doubt, however, that Sir Edmund would find a way around the impediments. He would see that his title, and indeed his name, if he could manage it, would live on.