Of Moths and Butterflies (45 page)

“Archer, I–”

But she stopped, having heard the sound of angry and impatient voices. He had heard it too, and together they turned in the direction from which they, two of them, a man and a woman, could be heard. Rounding the corner of the house, standing in the very centre of the circular drive, she saw them.

“Claire! Roger!”

Her behaviour seemed to auger some dark association.

LAIRE AND
ROGER turned upon hearing Imogen’s cry of surprise. A moment of confusion followed as the four of them tried to decide whom to greet and in which order. Roger, ignoring Archer altogether, took his cousin’s hands in his.

“My dear,” he said, kissing both of her bright cheeks as the rain continued to drizzle down. “How are you, my darling girl?”

Imogen smiled but was not given the opportunity to answer before Claire, after greeting Archer tersely, turned to her as well, and with a curious look that asked more questions than one.

“You are well?” she said. “You’re quite sure?”

“Yes, of course,” Imogen insisted and felt her shame in having been so weak as to allow her fears and frustrations to get the better of her. Her equanimity was in tatters and she knew, by the careful way in which her two dearest friends greeted her, that it showed quite plainly.

“Let’s get you indoors, shall we?” Claire said, taking her arm. “You must be soaked through.”

“It doesn’t look as though you’ve fared much better,” Imogen said, keenly aware of the reprieve Claire’s sudden and unexpected appearance had allowed her. “Tell me you did not walk from the station?”

Claire looked, for half a moment, ashamed. “At least I had the benefit of warm wrappings.”

“You did walk, then?”

“Well, I was not going to share a carriage with a strange man.”

Imogen laughed. “And so you walked with him instead?”

“That was not my arranging.”

“No. I do not doubt it.”

They had reached the house by then and, upon gaining the protective shelter of the covered porch, the two women embraced. Claire stood back and once more examined Imogen. “I wonder what he could be thinking, allowing you to walk out without anything on.”

“I’m not sure he was thinking. That is,” Imogen continued in answer to Claire’s pointed and disapproving gaze, “I didn’t give him much opportunity. I left the house rather hurriedly.”

Claire’s look turned even more condemning. “You must tell me everything. From the time I left onward,” she said as they entered the house. “Well…not everything, of course. But as much as you can. As much as you will. I want to understand it all. I want to know how best I might help you in the short time I’m…” She left off. Standing in the main hall, she turned and looked around. “Dear heaven! You
have
been hard at work, haven’t you?” Claire’s face was full of wonder as she took it all in, the gleaming wood, the fresh paint, the newly hung papers. “You’ve not done this all yourself?”

“Shall I show you?” Imogen said in lieu of a proper answer.

“Yes, by all means.” And then looking to Imogen once more, Claire reconsidered. “Perhaps we’d best get you dry first.”

Half ashamed, Imogen laughed again. “Yes. Perhaps we’d best.”

With Imogen’s arm placed firmly within hers, Claire mounted the staircase, though she had to stop several times along the way to take in all she saw.

“You have worked miracles here, my dear,” Claire said upon entering Imogen’s bedroom. “I hope they appreciate it.”

Imogen could not answer this, and instead of making the attempt, selected for herself a change of clothes.

“No. No, of course they don’t. Come,” said Claire, and placed Imogen before the fire where she began to help her friend, now her cousin too, to change. “They will though, when once you open your doors to Society. They must.”

“I have improved the Abbey’s appearance. That is all.”

Claire, having divested Imogen of her damp dress and petticoat, laid these to dry and turned to face her. “That is no small thing. I will not pretend it is the most important thing. But it will demand notice of the right sorts, and that is what matters. At least at first. And if Sir Edmund does not thank you for that then he is an ungrateful scoundrel.”

“Perhaps. Your theory, it seems, is soon to be tested.”

“Is it?”

“We are to open our doors, as you say. Friday week.”

“You are to have a party? Here? So soon?”

“To celebrate the wedding. I only learned of it this morning. Only…”

“Only what, my dear?”

“Sir Edmund, I’m afraid, is not possessed of many illustrious or advantageous connections. I had expected the money would raise us, but…”

“You have seen the guest list, I take it.”

“Claire, the names included on it… I don’t know how I am to do it. Is there not something you can do? You have connections. Can you help me?”

Claire considered this for a moment or two. “A week and a half is hardly enough time to summon the cream from London to the country.”

“No.”

“I will see what can be done. And I will help you face the riff raff. It won’t be so bad. You’ll see.”

Imogen remained sceptical.

“It cannot be that bad, surely.”

“I’m afraid it’s the worst imaginable.”

“Mrs. Barton and her people, then?”

“Worse still.”

“I don’t understand.”

Imogen hesitated a moment more. “Mister. Lionel. Osborne,” she said, whispering each part of the name as though it were three wicked and heartless men instead of just the one.

But Claire, it seemed, could not place the name. Pleadingly, Imogen looked at her friend and, touching her arm, recalled Claire to the story told her some months ago. Her eyes got suddenly large.

“Not him? Not the man who—?”

“Yes.”

Claire gaped silently for a long moment. “We simply won’t do it. It’s too much to ask.”

“But what of Sir Edmund? The intentional omission of one of his guests, and one of the few who bear titles— He will not be pleased.”

“But then he never is, is he?” Claire considered further. “He does not know…?”

“He can’t know the particulars, but he is aware of the rumours at least. He knew my uncle and understands as well as anyone what company he kept.”

“Well,” Claire said, brightening slightly. “Who’s to say, after all, that this is not some absurd test? Perhaps he means for you not to do it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Omit his name, and any others of whom you object. Blot them out. This is your house now, and if you’ve not established yourself yet, now is the time.”

Imogen was uncertain, and it showed.

“There’s something more,” Claire said in observation.

“No. No you are right. Surely if we can introduce higher Society, then the family will find its place in a more desirable sphere. If all come and admire and accept, then there can be nothing more to complain of.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“What?”

“Archer has left it to you to make peace with his uncle.”

Imogen sank down into the nearest chair and rested her head in one hand.

Claire knelt beside her. “Gina, I’m sorry.”

“Even if it could be done, it would all be undone when Archer learns the truth.”

“You have not told him, then?”

“No, but I must. And the sooner the better, I think.”

“You’re certain Sir Edmund would not have told him what he knows, or what he suspects, at any rate?”

“I don’t think he can have. Nor do I think he would. He would leave that for me to do. But even if Sir Edmund never speaks of it, even if I somehow escape having to face my uncle’s former acquaintances, the fact remains that until I tell Archer everything, I condemn myself to live with the knowledge that I have not been completely honest with him. And the truth will reveal itself one way or another, I have no doubt of it.”

“Oh my dear. You are right. But when will you do it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can, after all. I see that I must. But when I try to imagine myself actually speaking the words, it seems impossible. I could not bear his condemnation. It would destroy me.”

Claire stood and turned toward the fire, her arms folded resolutely before her. “You would have married him anyway,” she said at last.

“What?”

“Regardless of the arrangement, you accepted his proposal.”

Imogen could not quite understand this change in manner. “Yes,” she answered hesitantly.

“If all had gone as you had then hoped, had Archer separated himself from his uncle, or had Sir Edmund condoned the marriage without interference, would you not have told him already?”

“I would have had to, but the fact remains that I cannot see how I would have accomplished it.”

“But you would have. I believe you would have found a way. You must have, you know. There would have been no obstacles to keep you from giving yourself to him body and soul. Everything. Every bit of you.”

Imogen was silent. There was no use refuting it.

“What is it exactly that has prevented you from doing it now?”

Imogen hesitated to answer this. It required a greater degree of introspection than she had so far allowed herself.

“His duplicity?” Claire asked.

“Duplicity?” It was as she feared, but to hear Claire speak the word was as good as confirmation.

“Is it his inability to fulfil the promise he made you that day?”

So she was not referring to Bess Mason. Confused, she answered: “He made me no promise.”

“Yes, he did. Of course he did.”

Yes, he had. What was it? She feared to remember.

“He promised you devotion.”

Yes. Perhaps that was it. In a way. He had promised his feelings would never change. But how could he know? Humans, so prone to human frailties, are rarely in complete control of their emotions, rarely in possession of their own minds in such matters. He could not make such a promise when he lacked the requisite facts on which to base it.

“He promised you at least that he would do all in his power to make you happy.”

“No. He said he would only like the opportunity to try.”

“And you gave him the opportunity. The promise is implicit.”

“Perhaps,” Imogen answered weakly.

“He has not kept his promise. He took you back to Mrs. Barton’s house where the particulars of your marriage—already known to him—were then and there made known to you.”

She did not need this reminder. She had lived it once. She had lived it, over and over, every day since.

But Claire went on. “You were informed of the plans made for you. After the fact. Without ceremony. Without any consideration for your feelings. Without tact or delicacy.”

Imogen let out the breath she had been holding.

“He has used you ill. That you cannot tell him your secret is quite understandable.” Claire knelt again beside her. “Yet I would beg you to do it. He loves you. Any fool can see that. And I think… I think you have begun to love him, yes?”

Imogen’s answer was a blink, which caused the tears to start anew.

“And so you must, you see? Or all is lost. Not many have this opportunity to be so loved, or to love in return. Don’t you see the risks you take in keeping your secret much longer?”