Of Moths and Butterflies (8 page)

November 1881

VER THE PASSING days, Gina Shaw’s work progressed rapidly, far more rapidly than Mrs. Hartup’s enduring complaints might have led Sir Edmund to suppose. The painters and paperers had been called in and had raised their scaffolding. And while they made their preparations to begin painting, Gina continued her work, where and how she could, arranging, directing, planning in a manner both organised and efficient.

If it was Sir Edmund’s intention to watch her, she did not make his work too difficult. She was out of doors this afternoon, just within view of the study, working very hard as usual and conspicuously so. At least it was difficult to ignore her. He wondered if he had not taken an unnecessary risk in hiring her, and in keeping her in spite of all.

As he considered, he continued to watch from the comfort of his library. The plumes of dust that sailed about her as she beat a decade’s worth of dirt from the rugs did little to conceal her more obvious charms. Her hair she wore down, tied behind with a ribbon. Her complexion, too fine to have seen much of the unshaded world, was flushed from exertion. Sir Edmund sat down at his desk and thought. What combination of circumstances had brought her to his door? It could not be coincidence. He did not believe in it. Nor could it be by design. But what did that leave?

Before any satisfactory solution could be reached, and as if in confirmation of the risks he’d begun to consider, Sir Edmund’s view of the girl was obscured by the silhouette of Miles Wyndham. Without knocking, his nephew entered, his fair hair gleaming in the sunlight and his attention still turned out of doors.

“I see you’ve made an addition to the staff.”

“I have,” Sir Edmund answered. “Though what business it is of yours I’d like to know.”

Wyndham closed the door, but continued to watch her. “Hmm,” he answered, as if he thought the question were one deserving of sincere contemplation.

At last Wyndham managed to tear his gaze from the view outside and sat himself down in a chair opposite Sir Edmund’s desk.

“You’ve come for…?” Sir Edmund asked of him.

Wyndham gave Sir Edmund a sideways look. He appeared pale. But then he always looked pale. “The usual thing,” he answered, stretching his long legs out before him.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you again, Miles. I’m not your personal lending agent.”

“Hamilton seems to do well enough by you.”

Wyndham received a warning look for this.

“But then he’s not crossed you, has he? Not yet, at any rate.” With a jerk of his head in the direction of the yard, Wyndham went on. “It’s good of you to provide him with some amusement. Quite benevolent of you, really. We both know how sadly deprived he’s been in that quarter. At least of late. I suppose you need something to keep him coming home to.”

“That’s not what she’s here for Miles, and if you believe that then you’re a bigger fool than I thought you.”

“You know how to pick’em, that’s all I’ll say.”

“So long as you remember I didn’t pick her for you, or for Archer, for that matter, we’ll all get along well enough.”

“Why then? You’ve turned away enough mill girls to provide an army of servants. Why her?”

Sir Edmund didn’t answer this.

“Looking for an alternative to Mrs. Barton, are you?” Wyndham exhaled a breathy laugh. “I don’t blame you for that.”

“I’ll beg you to remember your place, Miles! It’s for Mrs. Barton this girl has been employed.” Sir Edmund rubbed at one eyebrow. “I need someone to attend to the west wing improvements, if you must know.”

Wyndham whistled and stood. “And so you’ve hired a common housemaid to appoint a suite of bedrooms for you and the future mistress of Wrencross Abbey? That’s taking a bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

“It may be. At the very least they’ll be cleaned and ready for the rest.”

Wyndham turned from the window. “Of course you could have Mrs. Barton see to the decorating. So long as your taste runs toward hothouse flowers and canary yellow.”

“That’s enough, Miles!”

Wyndham sat down again as he continued to examine the door, and the view beyond it.

“Hamilton’s home?”

“He’s expected this evening.”

“Ah!” Wyndham answered, tossing his eyebrows high. “If you’re anxious at all… Well, I can take her off your hands for you. I could use some extra help under my roof.”

“Under your roof. In your bed is what you mean! I’ve not got enough capital to be supporting any more knocked up wenches and their bastard children. Get out of here and keep a wide berth if you know what’s good for you!”

Wyndham arose.

“Through the front door, if you please!”

With Wyndham’s departure, and reminded of his anxieties, Sir Edmund returned his attention out of doors. Perhaps he had put too much faith in Archer’s obedience. That same faith had failed him before. Charlie Mason was living proof of it. Such a disaster could not be allowed to happen twice. Should some great obstacle come between his nephew and the ambitions which Sir Edmund had long held, and which he depended so much upon, all would be ruined. There was not much left to hold onto now. He was in debt up to his ears. What money he’d put forth for the recent improvements was little more than an investment. Mrs. Barton would bring them some relief, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what Archer might do. Sir Edmund, pacing the width of the library, turned once more to look out upon the latest risk to all his long established hopes. Was she truly a risk, or was it possible she was something else entirely? Until he knew for certain, it was the risk he needed to mitigate. He went to the door and summoned her.

She turned to look at him but hesitated to approach. Dust covered, sweat stained, she was still miles above the others in both appearance and manners. Yes, Archer would notice her. And what then?

“I believe I warned you once before that I prefer my servants to be as nearly invisible as is possible,” he said to her upon her arrival.

“Yes, sir. I remember.”

“And yet here you are, in the very centre of my lawn, beating rugs into the open air.”

“I cannot very well beat them indoors, sir.”

“The kitchen yard will not do?”

“Mrs. Prim forbids it, sir. She says it taints her cooking.”

“Someone else then will have to see to it,” and he turned to ring the bell.

“May I infer then, sir, that it is not your servants in general you object to seeing, but to me in particular?”

She seemed actually hurt by it, right as she was. Her audacity galled him.

“I think I made a mistake in hiring you. I was curious. It was wrong. I see that now.”

The look of anxiety that had been in her eyes a moment ago hardened now. “Do you have complaints about my work, sir?”

“I have concerns in regard to the fact that you seem determined to make trouble.”

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“You do not get on with the other staff. The girls do not like you. They say you put on airs, and I believe they are right.”

“Airs, sir?”

“Do you deny it?”

“I don’t know what you can mean.”

“Have you somehow lowered yourself in working for me?”

“No,” she answered without flinching.

“Perhaps you’ve raised yourself, then.”

Her face flushed crimson.

“Perhaps if I understood in what manner you served my friend, I might better know how you might best serve me.”

He saw her pale as she took a step away from him. What he saw in her eyes confirmed his suspicion, though it gave him no great comfort. He saw a fear that spoke of experience, and that of the worst kind. He’d seen that look before, and the memory brought the taste of bile.

“You’re quite a stranger here.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“No family?”

“No, sir.”

“None?”

“Not near.”

“In Town?”

Again, silence was her only answer.

“Drake Everard had a niece.”

Before she could answer, which he was not sure she meant to do, in any event, there was a knock at the door.

“Just a minute, if you please!” Sir Edmund bellowed, and then, taking Gina by the arm, showed her out, almost hastily, through the garden entrance.

“I want you upstairs, in the west wing bedrooms, and I want you to stay there, do you understand?”

“What have I done to offend you, sir? Will you tell me?”

“It isn’t anything you have done, but something you seem determined yet to do. Now go!”

He closed the door but waited a moment to be sure she was gone.

The knock again.

“Yes, yes. Come in!”

Archer stepped into the room. Sir Edmund stepped out of it.

“Mrs. Hartup!” he called.

A minute later, Mrs. Hartup appeared, red faced and out of breath.

“Send one of your girls out to finish beating the rugs, if you will.”

“The girls have enough to do on their own, sir, without attending to Gina’s chores.”

Sir Edmund’s eyes closed in frustration. “After twenty-odd years, Mrs. Hartup, can you manage for once to do as you are told?”

She turned and shuffled off, mumbling unintelligibly.

Sir Edmund returned to the study. Archer had already made himself comfortable.

“You’re home early.”

“In your way again, am I?”

“You won’t be for long.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sending you back to Town.”

“Not again?”

“Yes, again.” Sir Edmund handed Archer an invitation to a dinner party to be held that evening, along with his expected allowance. The young man pocketed it without a word. “You’ll go?”

“I suppose I might wash and get a change of clothes first.”

“Yes, yes. Fine.”

Archer arose, prepared to take his leave.

“Oh Archer,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him. “You won’t mind taking Mrs. Barton?”

At the mention of Sir Edmund’s mistress, Archer turned to face his uncle.

“Why would I do that?” His displeasure was apparent in the flinching of his jaw muscles.

“Because you attend me when you’re at home, if you remember, and you can do that by attending Mrs. Barton. I can’t get away just now, and she is anxious to be seen.”

“By you?”

“By Society! You’ll take her and there’s an end of it!”

RS. HARTUP ARRIVED in the east wing corridor to find Becky and Harriet preparing to enter Mr. Hamilton’s bedroom.

“You’re wanted out of doors,” Mrs. Hartup announced, taking little trouble to hide her irritation. “The rugs from the west bedroom suite must be beaten and aired and returned to the room as quickly as possible.”

“Gina cannot do it herself?”

“Apparently not. She’s been ordered to keep herself out of sight while the nephews are about.”

Becky was indignant. “But Mr. Hamilton’s fire has yet to be laid, and that in his book room as well.”

“I’ll tend to them,” Harriet offered. “I don’t mind.”

“It’ll take you both to finish the rugs before the rain starts, and certainly to carry them back indoors now Mr. Brown and Charlie have gone.”

It was then that Gina stepped into the hallway, having come from her room looking decidedly fresher of face than when she had been seen, a quarter of an hour ago, returning from the outdoors, flushed and filthy.

“Never mind, Harriet,” Becky said, her gaze latching onto the young woman, “I think I’ve got it in hand. You go on ahead. I’ll catch you up.”

Harriet’s gaze quickly shifted between Gina and Mrs. Hartup, but the housekeeper had begun to move off already.

“Go on. I won’t be five minutes.”

Harriet obeyed, following Mrs. Hartup toward the servants’ staircase and tossing a regretful look back in the direction of the corridor.

“Oh, Gina?” Becky said, and saw, as the girl turned, the look of hopeful anticipation on her face.

“I’m in a bit of a bind,” she said with an ingratiating smile. “Your rugs need seein’ to and the fires need layin’, and I can’t do’em both at once. I’ve just got this one more. Would you mind?” And before Gina could answer, Becky placed the coal scuttle in her hand and the ash pail and brushes at her feet.

“But I—”

“Just there,” Becky said, interrupting her and pointing to the door. She turned, then, to follow after Harriet

*   *   *

Imogen, uncertain what to do and yet not daring to arouse any further ire from the other staff, resolved herself to the task at hand and to doing it as quickly as possible. She knocked at the door and, hearing no answer, opened it.

Indeed the room was empty, but a greatcoat and a travelling bag on the bed provided the necessary proof that this room was intended for imminent use. Of all the positions to be placed in! And this on the heels of Sir Edmund’s warning. She had no time to lose, and so set immediately to work.

Kneeling down before the grate, she took up the brush and pan and began sweeping up as much of the dust and spent coals as she could before arranging the tinder and paper to light. When these had caught fire, she began, very carefully, stacking the new coals. As she might have expected, they flamed, guttered and went out. She tried again, growing more nervous lest she should fail to accomplish her task before the room’s occupant should return. Again, it was the same. Starting over, she replayed the entire process. To no avail. She took a deep breath, released her frustration—or tried to—before preparing to start again. It was then that the door opened.

She stood, nearly upsetting the scuttle as she did, and drawing attention to herself in the process.

The gentleman started and stared. “Miss Shaw?”

“Gina, sir,” she managed and looked away.

She was completely taken by surprise to see him, of all people. To think that it should be he, the charming and somewhat irreverent gentleman she had met in church nearly two weeks ago! His attentiveness then had endowed her with a strange and unfamiliar comfort. But it had also aroused feelings in her she had hoped to repent of. She had tried not to think of him again. She had not been entirely successful. But to find that this was his room, and that she now stood in it…all she could think was to get away.

“Excuse me, sir. I think I should not be here,” she said and moved toward the door.

“Wait!”

She stopped, but he said nothing more and just stood there, alternately looking at her and then off toward some vague object in another direction.

“Is there something I can get for you, sir?”

His eyes met hers then. “No!” And then softening. “No. I don’t… I’m sorry. I cannot quite understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand, sir.”

“But when I saw you before you were—”

“What was I?” she demanded, allowing a challenging air to seep into her voice.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“No, you don’t. You wouldn’t. I dare say you can’t,” she answered, and attempted once more to take her leave. This was dangerous ground and she knew it. She could feel the palpable tension between them, the tension created by the foolish indulgences of one morning’s otherwise innocent encounter. Oh, what had she done?

“Explain,” he said, stopping her again.

Without turning, she said simply, quietly, “I can’t. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Don’t.”

Again she stopped. And waited.

“It’s just… I just…”

Dropping her hand from the knob, she dared a glance in his direction but found she could not meet his gaze for long.

“I saw you. You were,” and a wave of his hand referenced her entire person, as if she had somehow changed her fine visage into something reprehensible, and had done it on purpose to offend him.

“I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression, sir. It was not my intention. I could not wear my uniform as it belongs to the house and was quite soiled. What I wore that day… It was all I had that was appropriate.”

“All you had?” He cast his gaze, one more time, over the ill-fitting merino she was now wearing and seemed to be comparing it against that which he had seen before, perfectly constructed to fit her frame alone. His tone was suddenly angry. “And so I am to call you by your Christian name and order you about?”

“If that is your wish.”

“It’s not!”

Alarmed by his anger, she replied with cool deference. “Then you are perfectly at liberty to ignore me. Sir.” She reached once more for the door.

He detained her this time with a hand on her arm.

In return, she cast on him a warning look, and he restored the proper distance, though it took him a moment to find his voice. “You were laying the fire.”

Without a word she returned to it.

“No. That’s not what I meant. Please don’t.”

She did not heed him, and he watched her as she piled the coals on too high, veritably choking the flames before they’d been given a chance to properly catch.

“It’s no matter,” he said. “Truly. I won’t need it. I’m not staying.”

“You’re not staying?”

“No. I’m not staying,” he said, frustrated. “And you needn’t look so relieved.”

She brushed aside a stray curl with her hand. The effort left a blackened smear across one cheek.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what? Sir.” She added the last, as she had done before, as though it were an afterthought.

“Look,” he said, and with a hand on her elbow he raised her from the floor. From his pocket he withdrew a handkerchief. He might have handed it to her. It had been his original intention, but as he continued to examine her face, and the black smudge placed high on one cheek, it seemed to him the easiest thing—quite the most natural thing in the world—to wipe it away himself. He raised his hand. She took a step away from him. He might have insisted. Now he knew she was little more than a servant, he might quite easily insist. But there was something in Gina Shaw’s manner that both drew him on and prevented him, as if she commanded from him, in some odd, unspoken way, his utmost respect. She was hardly the humble submissive. She was proud, determined. The contradiction intrigued and confused him. He handed the handkerchief to her but she would not take it.

“I’ll soil it,” was her objection.

“For heaven’s sake, Miss Shaw,” he said, drawing her toward the washbasin. He filled it and stepped aside, but there she remained, as if she didn’t know quite what to do. Standing still as she was, she provided him with the opportunity of examining her more closely. Her face, her ragged, woollen garment, her besooted apron…then her hands as she held them almost protectively before her. As if she were ashamed of them. And well she might be. He himself regretted to see the signs of ill use, the evidences of hard work recently undertaken, and which had more recently been cloaked by gloves made to fit her hands and no one else’s. What had she been? What could explain such a transformation? And could it be reversed?

Reversed? Great day, what was he thinking! What foolish fancies had he allowed himself to entertain in the weeks that had passed since he had first seen her? The idea that he might make himself familiar to her, that he might encourage her to admire him, that he might have the opportunity, perhaps many of them, to inspire her to smile on him as she had once done, these thoughts had consumed him. But this was hardly the reunion he had imagined. How could he ever have supposed she was merely a servant in his uncle’s house? How was it possible to have been so mistaken? Had she deceived him? Or had he deceived himself? However it had happened, it had been done, and quite completely!

Angry with the lie he had allowed himself to believe, he placed the soap within her reach. And waited. Reluctantly, she washed the soot from her hands—or tried—while he looked on. The smudge on her cheek remained. She had not yet seen it. He adjusted the mirror, and thus prompted, she looked into it.

“Ah,” she said and coloured slightly. “You see, it is a hopeless case.”

Was it, though? She smiled fleetingly, self-deprecatingly. Heaven above, she was beautiful! But what was that to him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She was a servant, never to be thought of. Not ever.

“You ought to go,” he said, as if it were she, all along, who had been detaining him.

“Yes, of course,” she said, and left the room with a respectful curtsy that made him want to shake her.

Archer turned with the closing of the door and stared into the not quite empty and still smouldering grate. There he remained. But to what purpose? None. He’d been mistaken. Foolish, certainly, in allowing himself to hope and brood over a woman he did not know and had not been able to discern as one in a station so very beneath his own. Concentrating on that alone, repeating it over and over, he went about that business which had brought him here. He prepared to leave, to return, once more, to Town. After pouring for himself fresh water, he washed his face, his neck, his arms and hands, and stopped. He examined the mirror, not his reflection in it, for even that angered him at the moment. He saw nothing. Nothing but his own foolishness. He remained, thinking. Then, determined not to think, he shook his head and continued. Running dampened fingers through his hair, he attempted to smooth his composure as well. Vainly. He finished washing, and dressed, and stood before the mirror to examine himself once more. Not to think. Simply to assess the success or failure of his efforts. It would do. It would have to do.

He took up his coat and bag and prepared to leave, but found the door an impenetrable obstacle. Unable to even open it, he stood, paralyzed. It was hopeless. It was all entirely hopeless. Overwhelmed by the futility of his frustrations, he turned back toward his bed and threw his coat and bag down upon it.

“Blast it!”