Of Moths and Butterflies (10 page)

“What brings you to that conclusion, sir?”

“Well, you speak like a Londoner.”

“Perhaps my father was from London.”

“Was he?”

She glanced at him. “No.”

He smiled and she returned it, though reluctantly.

“Will you tell me about your family?”

“No,” she said again.

“Why not?”

She dropped her hand from the wall and the look she gave him was a challenging one. “Do you usually ask such personal questions of your servants, sir?”

Sobering and feeling the weight of this rebuke, he replied, “No, I don’t.” He could answer it quite honestly. And he did so pointedly.

Ignoring him, she went back to work.

Clearly he would have to change his course, but he must inspire her once more to that easy manner. He sought for anything he might offer. Anything to keep her talking to him.

“These rooms have never been used, you know,” he said at last.

“Never?”

“Not during my life, no.”

Seeing her defensiveness crumble away, he went on, encouraged to speak of things he’d never spoken of to anyone. Of things that were never spoken of
by
anyone.

“They were meant to be my parents’,” he said. “This room was to be my mother’s.”

Imogen stopped and looked at him. “Was meant to be?” she said at last. “And never was?”

“She died before she could ever use it.”

“I’m so very sorry.” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “But then—”

“She died shortly after I was born. She died in giving me life.”

She blinked then, as if his pain were hers to bear.

He was strangely touched. “It’s all right,” he said. “I never knew her. I could not have missed her.”

“Are you quite sure?”

The question stopped him, made him think. “How do you miss someone you’ve never known?”

“How do you help missing someone who ought to have loved you but never had the chance?”

He was stunned by her understanding of that which he had felt but had never been able to form into words. And if he had, he would never have dared utter them.

“I’m very sorry for you,” she said again, and just as sincerely.

Speechless for the moment, he turned from her. He found it necessary to wander the room.

“Have I said something I should not have?” she asked eventually.

“No. No, of course not.”

“If it has caused you pain to speak of it…”

He shook his head in answer, unable to offer any verbal reply.

At length she went on with her work, but after several minutes spent in silence, she stopped again and turned to him.

“Does it bother you to have these rooms prepared for Mrs. Barton?”

“Why should it?”

She did not answer this, but dipped and wrung out a rag to wipe the dust from the wall. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

He ran one hand through his hair. “I’ve just told you my life’s history and you want to apologise for speaking out of turn?” He laughed then and found he could not stop.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No,” he said. “Not at all.”

“And you have not told it all. Only of your mother. What of your father?”

“Ah. Well now you do presume, for you would not tell me of yours, so I have no incentive whatever to speak of mine. I think I’ll keep that a secret.”

She blushed in response to his mock chastisement.

“For the present.”

She offered no reply to this. At least she made no objection, and he found himself hoping for such an opportunity to speak with her again on subjects both personal and familiar. As he considered this most welcome possibility, wandering the room as he did, she continued with her task.

“There,” she said at last and stepped away.

Archer returned to her side to examine her work, and what it should reveal. But he stopped again quite suddenly, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

It was indeed a landscape, expertly rendered and concealed beneath a single, shallow layer of paint. Interrupting the scene, emerging on horseback from the protection of a wooded glade, were two figures, a man and a woman. The sun’s rays, shining through autumn leaves, illuminated the woman in an ethereal glow made all the more remarkable by the manner in which her companion gave chase, following her as doggedly as a looming shadow. Yet it did not seem to fit there, the man. It was as though he had been added later. An afterthought. An omission rectified long after the fact.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“What do you see?” he heard her ask. And then he heard the footsteps. He turned to her.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“That would be my uncle, I believe.”

Her eyes were suddenly very wide. “You can’t be here.”

“I’m afraid it’s you who are going to have to go.” Unceremoniously, though not roughly, he took her arm and led her into the adjacent room, by which she was to exit through the other door. These were the instructions he gave her, returning just in time to greet his uncle.

*   *   *

Imogen understood the dilemma but was helpless to remedy it in the manner Mr. Hamilton had suggested. He had given her his instructions, but she had been given others. She had been instructed by Sir Edmund to return to this room and to remain here. Likely he would be displeased whatever she did, but she would not disobey, and she felt certain nothing could be gained by deception. If Becky had seen her here with Mr. Hamilton, it was entirely likely that others had subsequently learned of it.

She was frightened now. Not of Mr. Hamilton. Well, yes, perhaps a little. At least she was conscious that she should be, even if it were only for having felt so safe in his presence. Perhaps in that illusion of safety was the real danger. Just what trouble had he caused her? Or, conversely, she him? She heard the raised voices, and felt his shame mingle with her own. Suddenly it occurred to her what it was Sir Edmund had meant by his admonitions—why he had wanted her, and her alone, to stay out of the way. And with the revelation came another; the idea that Becky had known quite well what she was doing when she placed Imogen, however unwillingly, in Mr. Hamilton’s bedroom.

She remained, listening. She heard the question asked, demanded: “What the hell are you doing in here!”

She waited for Mr. Hamilton’s reply. It was not what she expected. “This is my mother’s image?”

Silence, only footsteps across bare floorboards.

“This is not my father. Is it you?”

“How did you come to find this?” Sir Edmund demanded.

“Why was it hidden? And what does it mean?”

“Where is the girl?”

It was Mr. Hamilton who remained silent now.

“Where is she, I say? ... Gina!”

Imogen, her heart pounding, entered the room once more.

“You’ve uncovered the mural?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“I found it when I was washing the walls. I did not know if you wanted it restored or—”

“It was covered over, was it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That did not serve as adequate indication that it was meant to remain covered?”

“I did not know what to do, sir.”

Clearly angry, he crossed the room to where the painters’ tools and supplies had been placed. He found and opened a can of white paint and poured it into a pail before finding a brush and returning with the lot.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the brush into Gina’s hands and placing the paint on the floor beside her.

“Sir?”

“Paint it over.”

She dared a glance at Mr. Hamilton and saw a pained look on his face, guilt ridden and perplexed.

Taking up the pail, she dipped the brush into the chalky liquid. It had not been stirred, and the oil pooled at the top, while the fumes of turpentine made her head spin. She felt sick. She looked to the gentlemen again. First to Sir Edmund, then to Mr. Hamilton, who, closing his eyes, nodded his encouragement that she should obey.

Reluctantly, she began, and the two men stood side by side, silent and tense, until the whole of the uncovered mural was covered again. Finished, she turned to them.

Sir Edmund, without a word, turned and moved toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton” she whispered.

Silently he shook his head to dismiss the matter, and remained half a minute more.

“Archer! I believe you have somewhere to be.”

At his uncle’s demand, he followed.

Imogen, once more alone, sank down onto the floor and gazed up at the newly painted wall, obtrusively white against the rest of the greyed and dingy room. The look she had seen on Mr. Hamilton’s face... She would never forget it.

R. HAMILTON, YOU
have come after all!” the evening’s hostess said by way of welcome. “I’m
so
pleased. And Mrs. Barton,” she added with a forced smile and a tone decidedly cooler. “You are welcome, of course.”

Archer returned the greeting with as much grace as he could affect under the circumstances. How he would prefer to be anywhere but here just now. But he had come—to fulfil his responsibility. To his uncle. To Society. He owed them much, after all. And he was not ungrateful. Sir Edmund had rescued him from orphanhood, had raised him and meant yet to raise him further, to lift him up to that which he might not otherwise have dared to expect. Should Archer only remember his duty, should he manage to live up to the expectations held for him, he would one day inherit all that his uncle possessed. These were great promises, to be sure, for a young man born under the pall of illegitimacy. But there was a price to pay for such privilege, and it was now, and in this way, that he was expected to repay. He was to establish himself in Society, to find himself a bride, and a wealthy one. And to please his uncle, he could not do it too soon. He cast his gaze around the room and felt a wave of repulsion at the idea.

What he wouldn’t give for a quiet card room and a bottle to himself. Mrs. Barton had thankfully moved off. Sir Edmund’s set could do little to help him with his uncle’s mistress on his arm. Society knew well enough when to call a spade a spade. The sham engagement had gone on too long to fool anyone. If only Archer could make his own way. But he must start somewhere. And so, drawing a breath, trying to focus his mind on the task at hand, he once more scanned the crowd. It was not all bad. There were some fine looking women here. Perhaps something might be accomplished after all. Miss Radcliffe was looking particularly well in sapphire blue. He rather liked that colour on the dark-haired beauties. He considered for a moment the idea of approaching her, when he heard his name.

“Hamilton!”

“Roger Barrett,” Archer returned, taking his hand.

“I had not expected to see you here.”

“No, nor had I,” Archer answered.

“To see me, do you mean, or… Oh!” Roger said, laughing as he comprehended the joke. “What was it that tempted you out tonight, then?”

“Curiosity, I suppose,” Archer said in lieu of the truth. “You?” he asked in turn, though he already had a good idea.

Barrett had always been a few rungs higher on the social ladder than his merits should have allowed, but he was not without talent. Their time together at school had proved that. Archer could not begrudge him his success simply because his friend had taken the trouble to earn what he himself had not.

“It’s my occupation, you know,” Barrett answered, “at least at present, until I can find something else more profitable.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“If I want to make anything of myself, I must work at it. Perhaps you understand. No? Well, it’s a job like any other. I must exert every effort, mixing and mingling, and making myself invaluable to those who might help me in my aspirations.”

“Yes, I suppose I see what you mean.”

Barrett took a sip of his drink, and smiled, as if to himself. “It’s merely a dinner party, I suppose you might say, but appearances are so often misleading. In fact, it’s not at all what it appears to be. Of course you know that.”

“Do I?” Archer answered.

Barrett leaned in to speak confidentially. “It looks like a casual evening of innocent diversion, but it isn’t that at all. It’s really much closer to a three ring circus.”

“And how is that?” Archer asked him, curious to hear what promised to be an amusing analogy and finding himself growing in sympathy with his friend the more of it he heard.

“Well, you see over here,” Barrett said, nodding in the direction of a nearby room, through which their host could be seen, leading the discussion amidst a crowd of eager listeners and a cloud of tobacco smoke. “That is where the ringmasters conduct their business, how to run the show, you see, whom to bring into the act. They might cast one of us as acrobat or fire eater, or they might toss us in with the freaks. But most of us, you and I included, are little more than lions, jumping through whatever hoops they should deign to hold before us.”

Archer watched them for a moment, and considered. As much as he regretted to admit it, he and Barrett were in very nearly the same boat.

“Of course they’re not the only ones running the show,” Barrett continued, his gaze moving pointedly in the direction of a group of ladies standing not far off, among whom were Roger’s aunt, Mrs. Julia Barrett, and a striking beauty who made it a habit of glancing in Roger’s direction whenever she happened to have the chance.

“There are the lion tamers,” he went on, lowering his voice slightly, “dressed to the nines in satin and feathers and seductively luring us, the lions, into a sense of false security, placing their own hoops and obstacles in our path. And for whom we gladly perform.

“Of course we cannot forget the clowns,” he added with a sly smile and a nod in the direction of Mrs. Barton and a few dandies, all too colourfully dressed for the occasion and laughing too loudly.

Archer closed his eyes to this and turned his attention back to Barrett.

“We laugh inwardly and sigh,” Barrett said sympathetically, “and yet don’t we envy them their apparent pleasure in everything that goes on around them?” Then he was suddenly serious, almost resentful. “We want it all, really. We want to be the ringmasters, to run the show for ourselves. Or at least to have the privilege of sitting among them, pretending to understand what it is that’s really going on. As is probably the case for most of them, poor fellows.” He nodded once again in the direction of the cloud of smoke. “We want a part in the admiration received from all sides by the lucky few, by the freaks and the dandies and the financiers of the enterprise. Yet we’re trapped at the same time by the overwhelming temptation to devour an occasional lion tamer or two. A dangerous distraction, by all accounts.” Barrett smiled again, that sly, arrogant smile.

“That’s quite an analogy,” Archer said, more impressed than he wished to let on.

“Have you a better one?”

Archer considered carefully for a moment or two. “It seems to me,” he offered at last and cautiously, “that we are all rather a lot like winged insects in various phases of development.”

Barrett looked doubtful. “This is your view of Society?”

“Well, perhaps of life in general.”

“Very well,” Roger answered, eyebrows raised high in anticipation of what was to come.

“In the larval stages it’s impossible to tell which will be moths and which will be butterflies. Even once wings have formed it is sometimes difficult to distinguish one from the other. Some are glorious beings at home in their element, the unwitting target of scores of admirers. Others are merely drab impostors, fluttering and bumping about blindly. How to know which is which, though? And which, by the same token, are we? We all seem to have the common inclination to be drawn to the brightest thing in any room.”

Barrett stared in puzzlement for a minute before a suppressed ripple of laughter burst forth and then grew louder.

“Heaven save us, Hamilton! That’s the worst thing I’ve heard in an age.” He looked Archer over very carefully and then laughed again. “What do you say we find the card room,” he said, clapping his friend on the back.

Archer followed, glad for the diversion if not a little wary of the company. He never could decide what to make of Roger Barrett. It was difficult not to like him, and perhaps that was the reason, more than any other, that he begrudged doing it now.

*   *   *

An hour or so later—perhaps three—having drunk entirely too much and having lost a good portion of his week’s stipend, Archer quit the game.

“You seem to be in a mood, my friend,” Barrett observed.

“Do I?”

“At least, you seem preoccupied.”

Archer sat back and, with a dry laugh, drew a hand through his hair.

“Your ‘bright thing’, I take it, is not here?”

Archer took hold of his drink and tossed off the last of it, but otherwise did not answer.

“Neither is mine, if you want to know.”

“I would have thought you’d have more than one,” Archer returned. “You usually do.”

A sidelong look served as a confession. “Perhaps I do.”

“Nothing serious, then?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It is simply that Society provides a wondrous array of possibilities in place of the one impossibility. And it is always the impossibility one yearns for most, is it not?”

Archer, considering another glass, now set his down and pushed it away. “I think you may be right.”

From where they sat, the ballroom could just be seen, and the ladies and gentlemen too, in all their regalia, as they danced and paraded past. The two gentlemen watched in silence for several minutes.

“Tell me, then,” Archer asked eventually, “of this impossibility. Why is it so? And what draws you on in spite?”

Roger shook his head and sighed. “My cousin.”

“Ah.”

“By marriage.”

“That is not the obstacle, then.”

“Her own objections provide for that.”

“Yet you pursue.”

“Or did.”

“Until?”

Roger drummed his fingers against the side of his chair. “She’s run away.”

Archer stifled a laugh. “That is an obstacle, indeed! With?”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that,” Barrett said with a sombre shake of his head. “She’s taken a holiday is all—a rather long one—and we don’t know where she is or when she’ll return.”

“But she will return? You’re sure of it?”

“By her own design or upon being recovered. But it isn’t much of a compliment to myself, you see.”

“She knows of your intentions?”

“Yes. Though it is possible she doubts the sincerity in them.” The furtive look that followed this told Archer he understood it to be his own fault. “So what of you, then? What has persuaded you to make such a rare appearance?”

“I was sent.”

“For?”

Archer wasn’t quite sure how to answer this. There were few, he knew, who would sympathise with his difficulty. That Roger Barrett might, served both as encouragement and warning. He took his chances.

“From, is more to the point, I think.”

Roger waited for the explanation.

“We have a new addition to the staff,” Archer explained.

“And?”

“She is, in a word, remarkable.”

“Dear heaven!” Roger said, and then allowed himself a low, irreverent chuckle. “And what will be the result of that?”

“I hardly know.”

“Don’t you?”

Archer had no answer for this.

“One does not marry one’s servants, you know.”

“No,” Archer said and looked away. “I know.”

“I think you know what you’re about, then.”

Archer rubbed his chin uncomfortably. He wished he’d said nothing of it. “There are objections, of course.”

“I’ve no doubt there are. She won’t object though. They rarely do.”