Of Moths and Butterflies (44 page)

“You know me so well, Miss Montegue? And so quickly? I suppose you are the shining example of selfless love. Perhaps you should be. Your cousin broke your heart for a fortune. He veritably bought my cousin and sold you off in one blow of the auctioneer’s hammer.”

She stopped and turned on him, fuming. “How dare you!”

“How dare I what? How dare I defend myself against your presumptuous and vanity-inspired accusations?”

“Me presumptuous? Me vain? If your heart had been so broken by your cousin’s preference for an arranged marriage over your offer—amicable though it was, I’m sure—then how is it you have the nerve to follow me, from train to train, from carriageway to footpath, gawping and prattling on as if you had some bet to win against Casanova?”

“You ridiculous woman!”

“
I’m
ridiculous?”

“Deaf too, it would appear. But yes. You have been nothing but the arrogant coquet since you stepped onto that London platform, and now you accuse me of following you? Are you really so thick that you have not yet gotten it into your skull that we have been travelling together for some reason other than my tormenting desire for your admiration? It’s a coincidence to be sure, but that is all, I do assure you. If you’d like for me to have come a different route—through the Americas, and then Asia, perhaps—I’ll be sure to make such arrangements the next time we happen to be travelling the same way. If there is a next time. And, by heaven, I pray there is not.”

“Why you self-important, pretentious, arrogant, over—”

But they were interrupted.

“Claire! Roger!”

*   *   *

Sir Edmund had taken his leave. Before quitting the Abbey, however, he had laid out his detailed directions for the party, as well as those regarding the completion of the library. All these were received by Archer with mixed feelings. As was the guest list upon it being handed him to examine. It was his opinion that their rise in Society ought to necessitate the dropping of certain acquaintances with the hopes of picking up others more beneficial to their aims. But to raise themselves with the dregs of Sir Edmund’s associates in tow seemed a rather preposterous thing to even consider, much less attempt, as the guest list suggested was the aim of this first societal endeavour.

Still, it was their responsibility, his and Imogen’s, to see that all arrangements were made and carried out with exactness. If it should be a success, perhaps then Sir Edmund would realise his error and at last show a proper appreciation for the union Archer had made. If he, through her, could win his uncle’s respect, what other wish could he possibly have? This week bore the promise of fulfilling all his hopes. He would not let a minute be wasted.

He found his wife hard at work already. While Mrs. Hartup had gone to collect her newly acquired additions to the staff, Imogen was counselling with the cook as to the proper dishes, the number of settings, the food that must be ordered and arranged, the washing of the table linens and a hundred other tasks both trivial and necessary. Archer waited patiently, and when at last she returned to the chore of counting the plate and china, he approached her.

“Good morning,” he said, his smile as welcoming as he could make it. He thought to place a kiss on her temple, where that dark and silken curl always laid. But she moved away from him at the last minute and busied herself with the cutlery, as though she had been all the time unaware of his intent. He wasn’t fooled.

“Has he gone, then?” she said at last and without looking up at him.

“He has. Just this morning.”

She seemed to relax just a bit.

“I’m afraid you’ll be very busy.”

“Oh yes,” she said without hesitation.

“I hope you’ll not be too busy.”

“Well,” and a moment’s pause followed. “There is much to do. The servants... I suppose it will all depend on Mrs. Hartup’s success, really. I have the guest rooms to finish. Charlie’s is almost done, you know.”

He had not yet told her of Sir Edmund’s plans for the boy. Now, however, was not the time.

“And your book room should probably receive some attention.”

“It might. I’ve had the insects removed.”

She stopped. A fork dropped from her hand. “What?”

“I promised you I would have them removed, and so I have.”

“Archer. I did not mean for you to—”

“It’s really of the least significance.”

“But you loved them.”

“I love—”

“Sir Edmund is gone, you say?”

He released a frustrated breath. “Yes.”

“I should set the men onto your book room,” and she moved as though to do it.

“I think the library should be finished first.”

She stopped. “Oh yes. You’re right, of course. You can’t be without both rooms. You could hang the insects in your room, I suppose.”

“Of course not.”

“Why?” she looked up and at last seemed to realise the foolishness in her suggestion. Flustered now, she went on. “Your book room though, it should be cleaned thoroughly. Surely you’ll want to use it as a smoking room while we have guests. Though I dare say you might smoke anywhere you like. I hope it’s not for me that you refuse to have it in the house.”

What was this about? “I’m sorry?”

“I mean you needn’t take it out of doors on my account.”

“But I don’t smoke. I never have.”

She looked up at him in earnest now and he did not like what he saw. She was angry, indignant.

“You may have a great deal you feel you need hide from me. I can’t blame you for that. But to lie to me about so small a thing—”

“I don’t smoke, Imogen. I may indeed have a great many bad habits, with which you will eventually become familiar, but I’ve never taken up that one.”

“But I have seen you.”

“You can’t have done.”

She laid down the cutlery and leaned against the table. “Are you trying to tell me that you have never stood below in the yard outside your uncle’s library? That you have never stood staring up at me like some sort of leering and hungry animal? That I have never seen you do it?”

“Wait. Of just what are you accusing me?”

“I’ve seen you Archer. Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen you from my window, standing below, smoking in the yard. More often than I can count. And you wonder why I lock the doors, or refuse to let you in when you start banging upon them like some sort of crazed lunatic. You lie and wonder why I do not trust you.”

“This is ridiculous.” He turned to go but she stopped him at the door.

“Do you want me to have your book room cleaned?”

“Do what you like, Gina. Have it burned to the ground for all I care.”

This uncharacteristic hardness hurt her. He could see it in her eyes and regretted causing her further pain. But he did not know how to help her when she was not making sense. Truly, he didn’t know how to help her in any event, did he?

“Is that the guest list?” she asked now.

“Yes.” He’d nearly forgotten it. “I thought you’d like to see it.” He returned to the room to place it on the table before her. She took it up to examine it. “The invitations will have to go out right away, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, I suppose they–” But she stopped and he watched her go quite pale. She dropped the letter back onto the table.

“What is it?”

She said nothing at first, only looked at the list as though it were covered in blood. Still disturbed by her unpredictability, and by the distance she seemed determined to keep, he found himself answering once more in that too defensive manner.

“You are disappointed. No doubt you had hoped to see more titles, more respected and respectable names. I am sorry if we are not what we should be. We might change that though. In time.”

At last she looked up at him. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Why should it be a joke?”

“These names, Archer. I know these names. Not all of them, but one or two. Is this representative of the company you keep? Of the company I will be expected to welcome and to entertain? Because I won’t do it. I can’t.”

“Show me?”

She pointed, vaguely, in the direction of the list.

“I don’t mean to be obtuse, my dear, but you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“This one,” she said, driving a finger into it as though she meant to obliterate it all together.

“Sir Lionel Osborne?”

“He is a friend of yours?”

“An associate of my uncle’s, I believe. I know him by name only.”

“And this?”

“The same.”

“I can’t do it.”

“What do you mean you can’t do it?”

“I’m to write the invitations? I am to sign my name and welcome these men here? I can’t do it. I won’t. If they are to be here, I will not be.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But he was not sure she was being ridiculous. Her behaviour, odd as it was, seemed to auger some dark association. He didn’t understand, but he did not believe she was behaving irrationally. “Will you tell me what those names mean to you?”

She took in a breath, as though preparing to speak, and held it. At last she spoke. Two words and that was all. “I can’t.” And she swept from the room, casting the paper onto the floor in her wake. He picked it up and replaced it on the table and then followed her outside into a fine mist of falling rain.

“Gina. Gina! Will you stop?”

But she didn’t.

He caught up to her and took her arm. “Talk to me. Please. I want to understand.”

She stopped and turned to him. “I want you to understand. I do. You must, I see that. But I can’t.” She was breathing very hard and stopped to catch up with herself. “I can’t tell you why. But I can’t do it. I won’t invite them.”

He was losing patience. “I’m afraid you must.”

All the colour had returned to her countenance now, but in alarming profusion.

“Must I? Must I really? What else must I do while your uncle is away?”

“Stop.”

“Don’t tell me to stop. Don’t tell me I must. I can’t and I won’t!” And she was very nearly in tears.

“Gina,” he whispered.

She stiffened and turned to walk away.

He took her elbow again and held her. “What is this? What is going on? First the nightmare, then your absurd accusations. Now this? I don’t understand you.”

“No. I told you. You can’t. You won’t.”

“Have I done something to hurt you, Imogen? Have I?”

“If you’ve lied…”

“I haven’t.”

“You will, then. It’s inevitable.”

“It’s inevitable that I should lie to you?”

“No.”

“That I’ll hurt you, then?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“What reason do you have for supposing it? Answer me.”

She tried to free herself, but he held tighter as the rain began to fall in earnest.

“Answer me!”

She stopped for half a moment and he watched her as her look of bewilderment turned to one of rage. Her eyes hardened and she hit him, quite hard, on the chest. And then again, on the arm that held her. He held her fast as she continued to rain down blows upon him. He bore it all with patient equanimity. Until, at last, seeing that it was useless, he let her go. She turned and walked away from him, leaving him, once more to follow.

And he did follow, as she attempted to collect herself. Ten minutes was all she needed. Ten minutes to be alone and to think. But he pursued, his eyes hard and determined, his hand reaching out to catch and clutch at her. It was a nightmare. It was her nightmare and now she was living it. He reached out once more to stop her. His fingers caught her sleeve and with a jerk, he spun her to face him.

“Just stop and talk to me,” he said. “Tell me, will you, what this is all about?”

Could she tell him? Could she explain why she had had the dream, what it had been about? Could she tell him why she could not write an invitation to Sir Lionel Osborne? Or why it was impossible that she should stand up in the same room as him? And what if she didn’t tell him? Would he not learn it anyway? From another? What would he think of her then?