Of Moths and Butterflies (61 page)

“No. No, those were Claire’s words. But she was right. I’ve failed. I’ve failed her. I’ve failed you. Will you tell me,” he said, “had I done the gentlemanly thing, the honourable thing and refused the arrangement, had I not pressed you, would you have married Barrett?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do not say no.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s just as you said. He loved me—”

“Loves you still, my dear.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps I would have married him. And I’m sure I would have been safe and comfortable with him, for a time. But eventually my heart would long for something more than he has ever been able to excite in me.”

Archer stopped and looked at her, not quite comprehending. Not yet.

“But…perhaps…I did not know then…what I know now.”

“Imogen,” he whispered. “What are you saying?”

“I cannot know what I would have done with knowledge I did not have.”

“And do you have that knowledge now?”

The courage to answer came slowly. Too slowly, for he did not wait to hear it.

“What reason, truly, had you to refuse him?”

“You know that already.”

“I want to hear it. Do you believe it still, now you know what it is you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“I do not want to be someone’s object, something collected and displayed. You know that. I have never wanted to be valued for what I bring with me, how I might serve, what I might provide, but for who I am, all of me. You know that too. It was why I agreed, because I thought you didn’t know about the money. And because I thought, if you were indeed ignorant of it, that it was me you wanted. Me alone. But I was wrong.”

“You were not wrong!” He blew a breath and turned away. Then examining, for a moment, the shattered glass, he turned to her again. “You want someone to love you for who you are? What you are, in spite of all?”

“Yes.” It was nearly a whisper. She knew what he was asking. She was not prepared for what came next.

“But are you truly capable of that, Imogen? I wonder. Because you do not seem it to me.”

She was stunned by this, the worst, and perhaps the most accurate of all his accusations.

“You have never given me that opportunity. I have wanted it and sought it and hungered for it! But you have never bared your soul to me! I don’t know what else I can do. Will you never be persuaded?”

“You are shouting at me,” she said, but he was beyond hearing.

“How do I know, after all, that you can accept the secrets I have yet to reveal? I might fight and clamour and it may come to nothing! And if you cannot trust me after all I may do, then what point is there? In the end we’ll only learn to despise each other as my uncle despises my mother. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not!”

“Well then, what do you want!”

“Stop shouting, at me,” she said, raising her own voice to meet his. “Why are you shouting? I’m trying, can’t you see that?”

And he did stop. He closed his mouth. He closed his eyes. And he turned away.

“I’m sorry,” she began, desperate to fill the silence. “I—”

“No,” he said. “I had no right to say what I did. It’s the drink, I suppose. Or I’m a greater blackguard than I realised. What’s happened, I allowed to happen. It is low of me, disgraceful, to blame you. You have every right to hold yourself from me. You do it rightly.”

“Do I?”

Slowly, he turned to look at her. “You do.”

“And am I doing it now? You’ve been raving like a madman, and here I am still. If I think so little of you, would I be here now? I have my own room, after all. And a key to lock the door. But I am here. I choose to be here. With you.”

His lips parted to speak, but the only sound that came from them was that of his breathing.

In the silence, and in need of some occupation, she knelt down before the fire and began gathering up the broken glass.

“Don’t,” he said.

But she did not heed him. She simply kept working. If she stopped, if she allowed herself to think, to speak, even to look at him, the tears would come. At least this way, with her head bent and turned from him, he could not see her struggle.

“Will you please leave it?” he tried again. “Mrs. Hartup, or one of her girls—”

His hand was on her arm, but she pulled it away. Then winced and dropped the glass. He saw the blood as it gathered in her hand, then dripped to the floor.

“What have you done?” he gently asked and attempted, once more, to raise her.

She did not object this time. He drew her to her former place, at the foot of his bed, and took her hand in his to examine it. The cut was not very deep, and no remnants of the glass remained. He crossed to the wash stand and quickly wetted a rag, which he brought back to her. He uncurled her fingers and placed it there, and remembered a time, not so very long ago, when he had done something similar. How altered she was now. No longer a servant to tend him, but his wife, for whom he would do anything. He knew it now, like he’d never known it before. Gently he cleaned the wound.

“I said it would be difficult, our decision.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Whatever we decide to do.”

“Yes.”

“We. Together.”

She raised her chin to meet his gaze, and he found he must look away, and so returned his attention to her hand. He exchanged the wet rag for a dry handkerchief and pressed it tightly to her wound.

“I said I cannot ask you to endure much more hardship, but I don’t see an easy way.”

“No.”

“Tomorrow needn’t be so terrible. Not like tonight.”

“No,” she said again.

That lilt of hope in her voice gave him courage, but his gaze remained on the hand he held. “Shall we say, then, that if tomorrow goes well, that if we make our place as Sir Edmund expects us to do, if it is a brilliant success, we stay and take our chances?”

“Very well.”

“And if it is not. If he behaves as he did tonight, if you are shamed or humiliated in any way, by him, by the guests—by me.”

“You?”

“One never knows. I may decide to throw the china.”

She laughed. And the sound comforted him.

“If tomorrow is a disaster, then we leave, and we place our future in the hands of fate.”

“Yes.”

“It is agreed, then?”

“Yes.”

“Together we’ll do this, one way or the other.”

“Yes. Together.”

With her hands still in his, he at last dared to look up at her. She was watching him intently. There was no look of shame there now, no fear, no regret. Hope, perhaps…and something else that made him ache. He lifted a hand to touch the curl that lay against her face, then her face itself, her cheek, her jaw. Slowly, he bent to kiss her. His lips brushed hers and lingered. He kissed her again, more intently…just as gently. He felt her soften and relax as he wrapped one arm protectively around her. But should he really be doing this? To have his wife in his arms… In his bed! How to say no? It could not be done. And yet… And yet was she truly his? He had not told her, after all, of the complications inherent in the erroneous signing of a name in a marriage registry. He had sworn never again to entrap her into something she had not willingly chosen. But had they not just chosen? Yes. Yes, he believed they had.

He kissed her still as he raised his hand to trace the lines of her neck and then her collarbone, to raise it again that he might entwine his fingers in her hair. Then brushing gently, tenderly, his thumb against her face, he found there were tears there. He looked to find that she was crying.

She was not ready. And truth be told, neither was he. Tomorrow, perhaps, when they had seen the day through and knew what they were facing. When the truth was revealed and they had made their confessions. Until she knew what she was choosing—and had made her choice. Perhaps then.

“It’s all right,” he said and wiped her tears away. “Truly.” He stood to raise her, to see her to her room.

“I’d rather stay,” she said. “I’d much rather stay. If you don’t mind.”

“No.” It was not quite a whisper, but it was certainly more breath than voice. “No. I don’t mind.”

“You must be tired.”

“Exhausted.” And he was, too. Having spent his emotion, he was now nearly dead on his feet.

“Sleep,” she said. It was a tender, tentative suggestion.

“Your hand?”

“It’s fine. Now.”

He sat down again, and then, drawing a blanket up, he did lay down, though she remained seated at the end of his bed.

“Do you mean to sit up?”

“No,” she answered him. “Not long.”

But there she remained until he had very nearly fallen asleep. And when the lights had been extinguished, and more coals had been placed on the fire, when he heard the sound of her shoes fall upon the floor, and saw, in the dim light of the fire, her hair let down, only then did she lay herself beside him. She kissed his forehead. He kissed the hand he now held in his. She closed her eyes and with her free hand, she blindly reached to him, to his chest, where the buttons of his shirt lay, and with her index finger, she hooked it within the placket, holding to him, however tentatively. His breath caught for a mere instant, and though he wanted more, far more, this, for the moment, was enough. It was all he dared ask. Perhaps more than he deserved.

She began gathering up the broken glass.

ESS MASON RETURNED
to her humble cottage tired and spent. Far more tired than usual, though it had been a short day. The last, it seemed, of long hours at the loom, her arms aching, the fluff of the wool fibres floating in the air and choking her lungs. But it was more than this now, she knew, for she tasted the blood and saw it in specks on her handkerchief. Nor could she work as fast as she was used to doing. Too often she had to stop altogether to cough, to recover her breath, or to take another dose of laudanum. She had fallen behind. No excuse was forgivable. And should she contaminate the work room… Such risks could not be afforded, and so Bess was dismissed of her employment. At least she had her washing. If only she had not given the money back to Miles. But no. She could not do without Charlie now. He would not be paid by Sir Edmund again, that was a fact. Nor was she likely to send Charlie back, not as he wanted the boy gone so badly. But he might find other odd jobs to do. Pity he would miss out on the opportunity to be properly educated. But what could she do? She must eat and clothe herself the same as anyone else. And without Charlie’s help... No, she’d made the right decision. She was certain of it.

She entered the cottage, laid down her basket and sat. Resting, catching her breath from the short and not usually difficult walk. All exercise was difficult now. It was as though someone had tried to make a pudding of her lungs. So heavy and full were they. She coughed. It was then she realised she was not alone.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

A moment or two of silence, and then… “It’s me Bess.”

“What are you doing here, Miles? You know I’m at work now. Or should be.”

“What is this?” he said, very nearly demanded, as he approached and set an empty bottle down on the table before her. “And this.” He placed another, and he made a round of the room, collecting similar bottles from shelves and cabinets, from tables, from the floor, the mantle, beneath the settee. Then entering her room, returned with a few more from beneath her bed.

She looked at him, half ashamed, half challenging. What right had he to judge her? It was his fault she was in this position.

“I asked you a question, Bess!”

Still she did not answer. He could see as well as anyone, could smell and taste, and read the one or two that had labels still.

“Are you ill?”

And he could hear. She coughed again.

“How long have you been like this?”

How long? It had been coming on so slowly, for so many months. A combination of poor conditions, of long hours in lint infested air, of late nights and hard work, of cold weather that seeped in through the doors and the chimney, through the windows and cracks in the walls. It had soaked into her from the steaming water, almost too hot to bear, and the soap that left a foul taste in her mouth as it seeped into her skin. It was from hopes dashed and a heart unsatisfied and a soul consigned to hell. She had thought she had fallen indeed the day Miles had first taken her. He had promised her so much. And for a time she believed it. But only now did she know how far she had truly fallen.

“Why are you here?” she asked him.

He didn’t answer at first. Was this a game? All questions, no answers?

“I’ve come to get Charlie,” he said eventually.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?” She turned to the boy’s bed to see a trunk upon it, and this half filled with his belongings. “You came to take him? While I was gone?”

“Sir Edmund demands he go. There is nothing for us, Bess, if we don’t comply.”

“I’m next, I suppose? First the boy and then me? He wants us disposed of, is that it?”

“I’ll not abandon you, Bess.” He knelt down beside her. “For all my broken promises. You have my word.”

“Your word!” she scoffed.

“Bess. I am sorry for everything, that I could not do more for you than I have done.”

“What does that mean to me now? Now I find you in my house, while I’m supposed to be at work. I’ve little enough you can steal, I know. But my boy, Miles. My boy?”

Wyndham stood straight. “This is for the best. It may be the making of him. You cannot deny him what may be his only chance.”

“And what am I to do?” she asked, following him to the little bed, where he continued packing up Charlie’s belongings.

“I asked you a question, Miles!” When he still refused to answer, refused even to look at her, she took his arm.

He threw her off, and she collapsed onto the bed, crying silent, hopeless tears. She fought down the temptation to sob. Such would only leave her weak and coughing once more. No. She must be strong. And so she bided her time, watching and waiting. Until he at last turned to fetch some out of the way item. It was then Bess raised herself to close the trunk’s lid, and then to lay herself upon it.

“Out of my way, Bess.”

She did not listen.

“The boy must go. We haven’t a choice in this.”

“What choice have I ever had?”

He was losing his temper, but she would not give in. Not this time.

“I’m warning you, Bess. I’m taking the boy, and that’s an end of it. Now move out of my way or you’ll be sorry!”

Sorry? Wasn’t she sorry now? She laughed, and the jostling of her lungs, the ragged thickness of her breath, sent her into another fit of coughing, more violent than the last. Wyndham pushed her aside. She grabbed onto his arm. He had nearly finished. A few more things and the trunk would be full. She clung to him and held on. For half a moment it seemed as though he might relent. His gaze met hers, then rose to examine the ceiling in silent and mounting frustration. At last he attempted to shake her free but she would not budge. He tried once more, but her tenacity was far greater than usual, though her strength was weaker, or should have been—would have been under any other circumstance. He took her by the shoulder and tried to push her from him. Still, she would not let go. She looked at him, pleading.

“Do not take my son. Your son, Miles. Our son.”

His gaze shifted, hardened. He looked straight ahead. His jaw set. His hand fisted. And the blow came. She was struck down, dazed, though not quite unconscious. With his fist he had struck one side of her head, but the other had hit the ground with equal force. Waiting for the room to steady, she closed her eyes.

When the ringing quieted, when the tilting of the room ceased, Bess raised herself to sit on the floor. She touched her aching temple to find blood. It trickled down her cheek before dropping onto her dirt-soiled apron. She turned to Wyndham. He was no longer there. He had gone. And with him, Charlie’s things.

But where was the boy? She had sent him to Parson Ashcombe. The Parson had been more than usually sympathetic to her cause. She had confided her entire history to him, hoping, perhaps, that he might find a way to relieve her from her misery. So long as her heart held onto Wyndham though, and the hope he would one day do right by her, there was little the parson could do—for her. For the boy though, he did more, scouting out odd jobs, even supplying him with a few of his own when the villagers were not in want of any assistance, or were not inclined to show mercy toward a hell-bound bastard child.

It was impossible she should go look for him. She had not the strength. She could do nothing but wait and hope for the best.

She was so tired. Her head hurt terribly. Her chest too. What she wouldn’t give for sleep and pleasant dreams. Slowly she raised herself to her knees, and then, at last and with great trouble, to her feet. She must reach her bed. But first…

The table, bestrewn with bottles, proved nearly an insurmountable obstacle. She sat, and thought, and tried to focus. One of these was still half full. One of these she must have. If she could find it. Another fit of coughing rattled her frame and left her weaker than before. Not this one. No, nor that one. What colour had it been? Clear? No. Brown. Light brown. Amber. In the centre, near the back, yes. Yes, there it was. She took it up and raised herself again. On unsteady feet she made her way to her own bed, where she sat. She took a sip from the bottle. Then another. Perhaps a stronger dose this time? Yes. Yes, much stronger. Her head hurt so. And she was so very tired. She rested her head on her pillow and pulled her blanket up close.

Where was Charlie? She had tried to hide her illness from him, and, too, her cure. No, not a cure. A comfort was all. It hid the pain, distracted her from it. But little could be concealed from such a precocious child. He had so much potential. His father’s polish. His uncle’s gentleness. Sir Edmund’s cunning. If he would only learn to use these for good. Slowly, she took in a breath, as much air as her congested lungs could hold. She was beginning to relax now. Her heart felt not so heavy. Perhaps she had been wrong to hold Charlie back. Wronger still in holding onto hope where it ought to have died years ago. She had been mistaken in thinking she could persuade Miles Wyndham to love her, to think highly of her enough to wish to raise her, or to make the necessary sacrifices to do it. Very foolish indeed. She laughed at herself. And coughed. She was a selfish woman and stubborn. She had always been.

She felt good now. Almost happy. Is this what heaven was like? Would she be allowed into that paradise? She thought not. But then… Any place was better than this. She had suffered so much. Was it possible to be more repentant? But this peace… This warm and comforting, all-consuming peace, available to her not through prayer or religion, certainly by no man, but through a bottle... If death felt like this, released from all care, her spirit light, her body lighter, not frail and cumbersome and riddled with disease… She looked at the bottle still held in her hand. How much would it take to set her free? She removed the cork and dropped it on the floor. Then tipped the remaining contents between her parted lips. And closed her eyes.