Of Moths and Butterflies (63 page)

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For Archer, this party was both hell and bliss. Another hour or more yet must be endured before the dancing was to begin. And for that he could not care less were it not for the prospect of five minutes in which he would have Imogen in his arms. Surely Sir Edmund must be pleased with her. He had now and then seen the man watching her, evaluating each little success for himself, and speculating, perhaps, on what might come of it. Such ideas had not escaped Archer either. But his obstacles were not completely conquered. If all his uncle’s expectations were to be accomplished tonight, then he would have to speak to her of their one remaining issue. He had to know that, should any challenges arise, she would choose him again. She had veritably done so by their agreement, but that was not enough for him. He would tell her that his name was different from that by which she had always known him. He would ask her for her permission to direct the lawyer to make the necessary amendments. And when she said yes, and he knew she would—she must—then all would truly be before him. Tonight he would make her his truly. The thought sent his blood rushing.

The musical evening had been underway for some minutes, and to his surprise, Imogen took her place at the piano. To think he had doubted her courage. That episode before, he did not understand it, but he was well aware of her trepidations about performing to strangers she considered so far above her. He could not but admire her persistence. And he knew, as he heard the music begin, as he watched her breast (and her colour) rise with that first intake of breath, that she had not done fighting her fears, and perhaps would not until later, much later, when they were lying quiet and still in each other’s arms.

She began to sing, and he, once riveted to the sight of her, now fixed upon the sound as well: the words, the music, the lilt of her voice as it lifted and fell, perfectly, gently, bewitchingly.

Light so low upon earth

You send a flash to the sun,

Here is the golden close of love,

All my wooing is done.

Dear heaven, if only it were true! He listened on, or tried to, and would have, had he not then been joined by Barrett. For the moment his companion remained silent, though Archer knew that could not last long.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Barrett said at last and with a nod toward the piano.

“Well, yes,” Archer answered, irritated to be interrupted and uncertain what Barrett’s purpose could possibly be. No doubt he had one. “She is...” Everything and all. The light, the sun, the stars. His soul, his breath, his sanity and madness.

“Yes,” Barrett said, relieving him of the burden of having to come up with the proper words, the ones not too sacred to utter aloud.

“I’ve never heard her sing before,” Archer offered next. “I confess, I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“And it shows.” He smiled briefly and returned his attention to the performance. “It was, however, Miss Montegue I meant.”

Archer, surprised by this, and relieved, lifted his chin an inch or two and laughed. “She is something. She’s gone all out to see that every detail has been attended to, that Imogen should have as little to worry about as possible.”

“More than you’ve done, then.”

Tensing again, Archer answered, though he did it honestly. “Yes. Perhaps.”

Light so low in the vale,

You flash and lighten afar;

For this is the golden morning of love.

And you are his morning star.

“Is there anything she cannot accomplish? Miss Montegue, I mean?” And Barrett nodded once more in the direction of the piano.

“If there is I’ve not yet discovered it.”

“She’s really rather remarkable, irritating though she can be at times.”

“Well she prides herself on that, you know. But when she means to charm...”

“Yes. I know what you mean.” Barrett paused a moment before offering the next. “She’s not bad either, the other one,” he said. “She has possibilities, I think.”

Archer looked at him now, uncertain what to make of this. And saw the hint of a smile in his countenance. “Yes,” Archer answered, smiling in turn. “I think she’ll do.”

Flash! I am coming, I come

By meadow and stile and wood

O lighten into my eyes and my heart,

Into my heart and my blood.

Archer took a steadying breath. He might have done more than that had Barrett not been beside him watching, observing her, and his response to her performance. Always the judge, he was. Always her protector. But Archer was determined to earn that place for himself. Today. Tonight. Soon. His own blood was pulsing now, and quite violently.

Heart, are you great enough

For a love that never tires?

O heart, are you great enough for love?

I have heard of thorns and briers

Over the meadows and stiles

Over the world to the end of it

Flash for a million miles.

She ended in a flourish, and then there was clapping. Claire arose and embraced her. Others did likewise. It was hardly the reserved and collected reception he had expected. Far more befitting, this. She had exerted great effort this evening, he knew. He could see it as she flashed him the humblest of looks, and smiled. He beamed at her, and her own smile grew more confident. But there was no getting near her. She took her seat beside Lady Harriet and was soon enveloped by them, chatting quietly, receiving their praise. Completely at home. A butterfly in her element.

 One of Archer’s cousin’s took her place at the piano now. He checked his watch. How much longer until the dancing began? There was no telling. But patience was not his companion tonight.

And so he went out of doors for some much needed air. Though no guests were likely to use them, the cloisters had all been lit. Sir Edmund’s rooms too, so that the back of the house was a many windowed and glass paned luminaire. It was breath-taking. And more so as the music and laughter—signs of life and happiness—wafted out into the surrounding grounds. Archer basked in it as he took a cooling and steadying stroll about the gardens, then walked on a little farther.

MOGEN, CAUGHT IN
the chatter and babble all about her, could do little more than accept Archer’s appreciative look. She wanted to be with him, to join him for a quiet half hour’s walk. By the time she was able to free herself, however, she had lost sight of him. Standing in the middle of the moonlit lawn, she looked about her. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Brava, my dear Imogen!”

She turned to find that Claire had followed her.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said and embraced Imogen warmly.

Imogen smiled in gratitude and returned her gaze to the gardens beyond.

“You are abandoning your guests,” Claire said, recalling her.

“I need just a moment to catch my breath. I’m not possessed of your indefatigable energy, I’m afraid.”

“No. Of course. Shall we walk?”

“Yes.”

And so they did, though little was said between them. Imogen needed a moment to collect her thoughts, and Claire seemed prepared to allow her that. Yet there was something Imogen wished to know of her friend. In light of yesterday’s conversation with Mrs. Montegue, in light of the decision she had come to that tonight must be the night—to tell him all, to give herself completely—she required one thing more.

“Claire, I want to ask you something.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I’m afraid it’s rather personal.”

Claire glanced at her furtively, perhaps nervously.

“When I told you of my degradation, of my–”

“Yes,” she said, interrupting her.

“When I told you, you said that you understood. I believe you do. You said you would one day tell me. Will you do it now?”

Claire glanced at her, but did not answer.

“Please, Claire. I know you would much rather forget it, but I want to know.”

A long silence followed, but Imogen was prepared to wait. At last her patience was rewarded.

“I have a brother,” Claire began. “Did you know?”

“No.”

She sighed heavily and went on. “We are estranged. He is–” And she shook her head. “I’ve not heard from him these past five years.”

Another pause before Claire went on, more earnestly now.

“My brother, was—I imagine still is, for they never change once they have gone wrong, I think—of an infamous character, and he had friends equally deplorable. One of these fancied himself in love with me. He called at the house very often, and our acquaintance improved. But when he learned of my affections for another, he became jealous. He offered to me. I refused him. But my refusals, it seemed, only drove him on. He presumed upon me in every conceivable manner, at every opportunity…until…”

“Until?”

“Well… Until he took it upon himself to take from me that which I would not willingly give him.”

Though Imogen half expected this conclusion, it was still shocking to hear. “And the other? He would not have you?”

“I never gave him the chance. For the same reasons as you, I feared to give him the opportunity to reject me and to despise me. At the time I considered myself unworthy of him. Now I see that I should have given him, and myself, the benefit of the doubt.”

“Would you give it to another?”

Claire stopped and turned back toward the house. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps someday.” The slightest flame of hope sparked in her countenance. And then extinguished as she averted her gaze from the house and toward the gardens, flushed and not quite herself.

Imogen was puzzled. It did not last long.

“My dearest, Imogen,” Roger said and stopped to kiss her on the cheek before turning to Claire. “Miss. Montegue. Won’t you come back in? The dancing is about to begin. I know you’ll be very much missed if you remain any longer.” This last he said, and rather pointedly, to Imogen alone.

“Yes, do go in,” Claire urged her.

“Will you not return as well, Miss Montegue?”

“I think I’ve had enough of your manhandling, Mr. Barrett, to last me quite some time.”

He laughed. “You were under the impression I meant to ask you to dance?”

She looked away, embarrassed, and Roger gave her a long moment to contemplate her presumptuousness.

“If dancing is too much for you,” he said eventually, “then perhaps you’ll walk with me instead?”

She turned to him, not quite as humbled as perhaps he had hoped.

“Very well, Mr. Barrett. If you think you can behave yourself.”

“I can only promise to try.”

Imogen returned to the house, both eager and trepidatious for what must come next. She had nearly reached the protection of the music room when she heard, or thought she heard, a voice call out. Like a child’s. Familiar and pleading. She looked about her, but she was quite alone. Well…nearly alone. Archer was standing just within the music room doorway.

“Will you come in?” he said, and held out his hand to her.

She hesitated, looking about her still for the voice she was not quite certain she had heard.

“I’ll carry you if I must, but you will dance with me.”

Recalling herself, she laughed and took his arm. “Roger had to do, so I suppose it seems right that you should.”

“Barrett?” He looked puzzled, though, to her relief, not angry.

“He taught me, you know. While you were gone.”

“You didn’t know how?”

“No.”

“How is it possible?”

There was no time to answer. At least it seemed unimportant as they reached the centre of the floor, where their guests parted the way to look on, and to wait for their turn to join in.

The music began. Brahms, of course. Such beautiful music. Such a beautiful room. Claire had gone all out. The servants, too. The candles in the chandelier winked and threw sparkling light upon the cherub bestrewn ceiling. Little archers everywhere. She blushed at the thought.

“Are you all right?” Archer asked, placing his hand, warm and gentle, on her back.

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You look a trifle flustered.”

“Well, that’s because I am.”

“Have I told you how beautiful you look? And your song, Imogen… I did not know you could sing. Not like that. I had no idea.”

She felt that spark of flirtatiousness rise up. Only now there was no shame in it. It was right and good. “I thought perhaps you disapproved,” she said. “You left so soon after it.”

“After you, there was nothing worth seeing or hearing.”

“Archer,” she said. “If you keep this up, I’ll be persuaded to believe you.”

He laughed and held her a bit closer. “I wish you would,” he said. “I truly wish you would.”

He held her closer yet as they danced. In his arms, just now, she felt so safe. She felt as though she belonged, and she rejoiced in the exhilaration she felt. If only it could always be this way. If there were no uncles to navigate, nor leering and licentious cousins to avoid… If there was not his past to fear. Nor hers to reveal. No mysteries to uncover, no secrets to tell, she imagined she might indeed find herself truly happy. It might yet be so. Tonight, the obstacles before them seemed not so insurmountable. She felt the prick of happy tears.

“You are a puzzling creature, aren’t you?”

She dared a glance at him.

“You are one minute frightened nearly to tears, the next minute conquering them as though they were nothing. Now tears again. Would you mind telling me what these are for?”

She meant to answer him, if she could only find the words. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, a flash of sudden and hurried movement caught her eye. She craned her neck, this way and that as they turned with the music, trying to see over, or through, or around the crowd, into the courtyard beyond.

“What is it?”

She did not answer, did not even hear the question.

“Gina, what is it? Will you tell me?”

“I saw something. Or thought I did. Wyndham would not come? Would he?”

“He had best not if he has any sense of what is good for him. But then sense is asking a bit much from him, I think.”

There was movement again. A shock of unruly grey-white hair. Sir Edmund. He was looking for something, it seemed, just beyond the conservatory doors. Something or someone.
Was
Wyndham here? Please no. She could not face Wyndham’s insolence. Not here. Not now with a crowd to watch. Not when the evening had so far gone so well.

“Is something the matter?” Archer tried again.

She heard once more the cry. A child’s cry as Sir Edmund reached and grabbed for something. He caught it, it seemed, and now struggled to hold on.

“What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

Still she ignored him. Her efforts were at last rewarded as the crowd parted just enough to allow a clear view to the outdoors. There, just within the conservatory garden, Sir Edmund stood, and clutched within his arms was not a man, not Wyndham, but a child.

“Charlie,” she whispered, more to herself than in answer of Archer’s question. She attempted to break from him.

He did not wish to let her go, but she was insistent. And unprepared to struggle with her in the midst of a crowd of curious onlookers, he released her and watched as she fled the room. Leaving him to bear his humiliation as the guests looked to him for the answers he could not give. Politely he made his excuses, and hers. And followed in pursuit.