Of Moths and Butterflies (52 page)

Still, there was Wyndham’s threat to consider. Did she dare keep his secret? Did she dare reveal it? Perhaps she ought to go to Claire. Claire had harboured her before, after all. Certainly she would do it again. But it was still early, and Claire would be downstairs, entertaining, fulfilling the responsibility Imogen had so far neglected. Certainly she would come to check on her, in time. Imogen would tell her then. And yet…if there was any chance Archer should return… No, she would remain here. Archer must return tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. And she would be here, waiting for him.

A knock at her door startled her. She arose and opened it to find Mrs. Hartup, who had come to ask after her. Sir Edmund, it seemed, had locked himself in his library, organising and preparing to have it all put back in order tomorrow, and so would not be at the table tonight. But Imogen was not feeling up to company. Nor was she prepared to face Sir Edmund’s wrath when he at last discovered his belongings had been tampered with.

“I’m afraid I have a headache, Mrs. Hartup. I think I’d prefer to rest quietly this evening. You will make my excuses?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup replied, and turned to go.

“Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen said, stopping her.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Have you the only other key to this room?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Would you be so good as to give it to me?”

Mrs. Hartup hesitated. This was an unusual request, and Imogen understood what it suggested, that she did not trust the housekeeper. It was regrettable, but she was helpless to explain herself. Or nearly so.

“My nightmares, Mrs. Hartup. I find I cannot sleep. If I knew I held the only keys to the room, I might feel more secure.”

Still, the woman hesitated.

“Please, Mrs. Hartup. I’ll not lock my room while I’m away from it. But I would like to know that I can secure myself within it when I am here. You do understand?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Obediently, though reluctantly, Mrs. Hartup brought forth the key.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup answered respectfully, though her manner had visibly chilled. “Do you wish for anything more?”

“No, Mrs. Hartup. Thank you.”

The housekeeper left and the door closed behind her. With the key in hand, Imogen secured her room, and sat down to take up, once more that lonely vigil. Determined to wait. Determined to be the first to greet Archer upon his return, to hear from him what he had learned, and what he was to do with that knowledge. And to unload her burden on him—if she could but find the courage.

There was a chance, albeit a small one.

ELL IS THE
wait, twelve, twenty-four, forty-eight hours before the imprisoned man learns if he is to be set free. While Archer waited for word from the lawyer, he dared not go out. And so he remained, a prisoner in a gentleman’s club. He slept some, ate little, and thought a great deal. Apart from that, he watched. He watched the easy comings and goings of his fellow men, played audience to their games and conversations, saw and heard much and generally felt as though he were looking at the world through a pane of frosted glass. Nothing made sense. How was it that a man, born to so little, brought up to expect so much, should be, here and now, so wholly a stranger to the ways of the sovereign gentleman? How had he become so entirely owned? By an uncle. By a woman. By circumstances seemingly beyond his control.

He had met with Mr. Watts. They had spoken briefly. As regarded Imogen’s fortune, it was Archer’s right as her husband to claim it, of course, but debts repaid could not be unpaid, a house restored could not be unrestored. What was spent was gone. Without a chancery suit, he had little hope of rescuing any part of it. But then she had never wanted it, had she? Or so Mr. Watts reminded him. And reminded him further that it was for the fear that some arrangement might be designed upon—such an arrangement as that to which she had so recently been condemned—that she had been persuaded to run from it. But there was more the lawyer hinted at. Disturbing words too, that Archer could not quite wrap his head around. Suggestions made in regards to his own history, which no one seemed quite able to understand, and of which no one would impart any clue to the solving of the riddle.

The facts regarding her history were obscurer still, and would remain so. The lawyer had no intentions of enlightening him, it seemed, even upon those matters he thought he understood quite well. Ever faithful to her interests, Mr. Watts was as a concerned father, and his judgment of Archer’s deeds did not go unobserved…or unexpressed.

Yet for all the guilt Archer felt, and which had been so neatly brought home to him in all its unsavoury forms, it was the last suggestion that had taken his legs out from under him. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that any chancery suit, brought by him or anyone else with a desire to get at Imogen’s money, might, on grounds purely technical, question the validity of his marriage.

“How?” he had asked. Very nearly demanded. “How was such a thing possible ?”

But then the lawyer had quite suddenly retracted it all. Perhaps a little further research would uncover the necessary clarification. Perhaps he was mistaken, after all, in supposing Mr. Hamilton had provided false information in order to secure an advantageous marriage. Perhaps… Perhaps Mr. Watts did not know quite all he should before making such accusations. If the marriage were contestable... Well. Perhaps if Mr. Hamilton were to return tomorrow, or the next day, even, Mr. Watts might have the necessary facts before him. And so, too, just perhaps, might Mr. Hamilton.

And so Archer watched. Watched and waited, in dread and anxiety and fear—in guilt—for the lawyer to summon him once more, that he might at last come to understand just what were the obstacles before him. And fearing to find, that those hopes, on which hung his future happiness, and perhaps hers as well, were impossible dreams after all.

*   *   *

Imogen started from her fitful sleep with the sound of a knock at her door. A glance toward Archer’s room, and the darkened doorway, told her it could not be him. She raised herself from the chaise on which she had been dozing and crossed the room to open it.

“I see you are up, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup observed, though stiffly. Clearly she was still feeling the slight of Imogen’s request for the keys.

“I never went to bed I’m afraid, Mrs. Hartup. Even with the doors locked, it seems I have too much on my mind.”

The housekeeper too glanced in the direction of Archer’s room.

“He has not returned,” Imogen said, providing the unnecessary answer.

“Let us pray, for all our sakes, that he does soon.”

“Yes.” She understood the housekeeper’s warning. There were only a few days remaining before the expected arrival of their guests—of her family, and of Claire’s. If he was not back by then, if she had Sir Edmund’s wrath to contend with on top of everything else, there was simply no possible way she could endure it. And there would be Roger’s petitions, and Mr. Wyndham’s looming presence to consider. Reminded of him, she felt a chill run through her exhausted frame.

“Do you know if Miss Montegue is up?”

“Yes, ma’am? She has been anxious about you. Shall I send her to you?”

“No, not yet. Perhaps if you’ll prepare a bath?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Mrs. Hartup bowed and left the room.

Soon enough, another knock was heard. She opened it to admit the maids who must have arrived with the water. But it was not they who entered.

“There’s such a commotion out there as is not to be believed,” Claire said, entering in a flurry of excitement.

“Good morning, Claire. I trust you slept well.”

Claire stopped to look at her. “You didn’t. That’s clear.”

Not ready to answer this, Imogen replied with another question. “What is all the commotion about? They are refurnishing the library today, I think.”

“Yes. And Roger– I mean Mr. Barrett, of course, is driving me to distraction. I think I may have to find him something to do.”

“You’ve had an opportunity to get to know him,” Imogen observed.

“Yes, somewhat,” and Claire sat and straightened her skirt.

“Have you learned to like him any better?”

“I cannot make up my mind about him, if you want to know the truth. He is either a man of great energy somewhat distracted in his purpose, or an idle man with fancies to occasionally play the hero. I cannot decide which.”

“I wish I could help you, but I think you may be right on both counts. He has his weaknesses, I’m well aware, but his intentions are well meant. He is a good man at heart.”

“Of his greatest weaknesses, you are certainly one,” Claire said, glancing up.

“Perhaps. In many ways we are opposites, for all that he and I are so much alike.”

“How is that, dear Imogen?”

“He has so little self-discipline, you see. And I have too much.”

“Can anyone ever have too much self-discipline?”

“Yes. I think so. When one knows they ought to love, and to express that love. But won’t, or can’t. Yes, then I think it is too much. It’s fear. Its own brand of weakness.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “I think you must be right.” She smiled stiffly, fleetingly. And grew concerned as Imogen yawned once more. “You are not still unwell?”

“No. Only very tired.”

“Well you had better revive yourself. The dressmaker is here, there are the flowers to arrange and I know not what else.”

The day was spent thus. As Imogen shadowed Claire, she found comfort in the protection her companionship afforded. Roger was kept quite busy as well, and did not complain when Claire handed him a list—and a rather long one—of chores she wished him to accomplish. Imogen too was given instructions. And she followed them to the letter. Perhaps it was not Claire’s place, but she, it seemed, was the only one with a clear head in the midst of all the anxiety and chaos.

At last, when the day had done, and everything was nearing completion, when Imogen’s gowns had been sized and fitted, and refitted, and altered and fitted again, and the two women, exhausted, sat down for some quiet refreshment, Claire, ever the astute companion, began to probe and to question—as a true and concerned friend would.

“What is it, Imogen? What is troubling you? You look as though you’ve been on the verge of tears this last hour or more.”

“Where is he, Claire? Why has he not returned?”

“He will. He will not allow you to face your guests alone. I promise.”

“I don’t care about the guests!” She realised quite suddenly that it was true. “I want him. I want him home. Today. Now.”

Claire moved to join Imogen on the sofa, and taking both her hands in her own, looked squarely upon her. “He will be back, Imogen. Tonight, tomorrow perhaps. But he will come home.”

“If you’re wrong, Claire…”

“I’m not. Now, it’s been a long day, and I think you should sleep. If you can. Can you?”

“I don’t know. Would it be possible, Claire, to stay with you tonight?”

“Yes, of course, if you wish. Is something the matter?”

It was then Imogen ought to have told her about Wyndham’s threat. But she found, after all, that she couldn’t. She hadn’t the energy even to think of it. “I’m just not sleeping, is all. I have too much on my mind. And I’m quite anxious. Perhaps…if I were not alone…”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course. Come.”

And so Imogen, after collecting her necessities, followed. Perhaps Claire sensed that Imogen was not up to any deep conversation. Perhaps, she, herself, was too preoccupied with the impending arrival of the guests. Or perhaps she had weightier matters on her own mind, but the conversation that night was both spare and trivial. And Imogen was grateful for the reprieve. They lay in silence when the lights had been put out, and Imogen thought Claire must have fallen asleep when at last the silence was broken.

“Do you think…?” Claire began, but then fell quiet again. “Do you think it possible to influence a man to reformation?”

“You said so yourself, Claire. Do you doubt your own words?”

“I was speaking of Archer then. And I know him well enough to believe it in him. But do you think it true of all men?”

“No. I can’t say I do.”

“No.” A long silence followed, and then: “What of Mr. Barrett?”

“Aunt Julia always believed it was possible. In fact she quite counted on it. Why do you ask?”

No answer was immediately forthcoming.

“Claire?”

“Oh. No reason,” she said, and then turned over to face the wall. “Good night.”

“Good night, Claire.” And yet Imogen suspected, in the silence that grew and surrounded them, and which should have lulled them, that she was not alone in her struggle for the peace of mind to sleep. Rest she found, but sleep did not come until it was nearly light.